The shepherd was at his post by daybreak. I joined him on some slopes that had been lately cleared of their trees, where the hot summer sun, which strikes with such force on the back of one’s neck, could not reach us for two or three hours. In the cool morning air, with the sheep browsing under Sultan’s care, the two of us started on our search. A Sacred Beetle’s burrow is soon found: you can tell it by the fresh little mound of earth above it. With a vigorous turn of the wrist, my companion digs away with the little pocket-trowel which I have lent him. Incorrigible earthscraper that I am, I seldom set forth without this light but serviceable tool. While he digs I lie down, the better to see the arrangement and furniture of the cellar which we are unearthing, and I am all eyes. The shepherd uses the trowel as a lever and, with his other hand, holds back and pushes aside the soil. Here we are! A cave opens out, and, in the moist warmth of the yawning vault, I see a splendid pear lying full-length upon the ground. No, I shall not soon forget this first revelation of the Scarab’s maternal masterpiece. My excitement could have been no greater had I been an archæologist digging among the ancient relics of Egypt and lighting upon the sacred insect of the dead, carved in emerald, in some Pharaonic crypt. O ineffable moment, when truth suddenly shines forth! What other joys can compare with that holy rapture! The shepherd was in the seventh heaven; he laughed in response to my smile and was happy in my gladness. [131] There was truly good reason for the naturalist and his young friend to exult. Henri Fabre had just discovered what he had vainly been seeking for more than thirty years. He now knew the secret of the Sacred Beetle’s nest; he knew that the loaf of the future nursling was not in the least like that which the insect rolls along the ground for its own use. He was now in a position to correct the error of centuries which he himself had accepted on the word of the masters. And thanks to whom? Thanks to a shepherd barely “brightened by a little reading” who had acted as his assistant. The poet was indeed right who said: “On a souvent besoin d’un plus petit que soi.” (Of those less than ourselves we oft have need.) So much the worse for the proud who refuse to realise this! Fabre was not of their number; and more than once it was greatly to his advantage that he was not. In the choice of his collaborators, then, Fabre addressed himself by preference to children, for he loved their perspicacity, and above all “the naïve curiosity so like his own.” But he would also solicit the help of the adult members of his entourage, if by their situation, their character, their good nature, or their mental temper he judged them capable of understanding him or, at all events, of giving him information and assisting him in his labours.