Luck favoured me a second time. As a reward for my prowess I was given La Fontaine’s Fables, in a popular, cheap edition, crammed with pictures, small, I admit, and very inaccurate, but still delightful. Here were the crow, the fox, the wolf, the magpie, the frog, the rabbit, the ass, the dog, the cat; all persons of my acquaintance. The glorious book was immensely to my taste, with its skimpy illustrations in which the animal walked and talked. As to understanding what it said, that was another story. Never mind, my lad! Put together syllables that say nothing to you yet; they will speak to you later and La Fontaine will always remain your friend. [15] CHAPTER IV THE SCHOOLBOY: SAINT-LÉONS To know a pupil thoroughly, it is not enough to study him in class; one must watch him at play, for it is then especially that his nascent tastes reveal themselves, and the outlines of his future personality are more plainly discerned. We have seen Jean-Henri bending over his task under the eye of the schoolmaster, or of his father; now let us follow him in the free play of his activities, absorbed in intimate communion with the children of nature. He himself will tell us what were his favourite pastimes in the garden, by the pond, or in the fields. All the reminiscences of the little Jean-Henri’s schooldays pall before the memory of his father’s garden: A tiny hanging garden of some thirty paces by ten, situated right at the top of the village. The only spot that overlooks it is a little esplanade on which stands the old castle [16] with the four turrets that have now become dovecotes. A steep path takes you up to this open space. From my house on, it is more like a precipice than a slope. Gardens buttressed by walls are staged in terraces on the sides of the funnel-shaped valley. Ours is the highest; it is also the smallest. There are no trees. Even a solitary apple-tree would crowd it. There is a patch of cabbages, with a border of sorrel, a patch of turnips, and another of lettuces. That is all we have in the way of garden-stuff; there is no room for more. Against the upper supporting-wall, facing due south, is a vine-arbour which, at intervals, when the sun is generous, provides half a basketful of white muscatel grapes. These are a luxury of our own, greatly envied by the neighbours, for the vine is unknown outside this corner, the warmest in the village. A hedge of currant-bushes, the only safeguard against a terrible fall, forms a parapet above the next terrace. When our parents’ watchful eyes are off us, we lie flat on our stomachs, my brother [17] and I, and look into the abyss at the foot of the wall bulging under the thrust of the soil. It is the garden of monsieur le notaire.