peace assured, the animal hastily seized on everything. The
warbler took up his abode in the lilac shrubs; the greenfinch
settled in the thick shelter of the cypresses; the sparrow carted
rags and straw under every slate; the Serin finch, whose downy
nest is no bigger than half an apricot, came and chirped in the
plane tree tops; the Scops made a habit of uttering his
monotonous, piping note here, of an evening; the bird of Pallas
Athene, the owl, came hurrying along to hoot and hiss.

In front of the house is a large pond, fed by the aqueduct that
supplies the village pumps with water. Here, from half a mile and
more around, come the frogs and Toads in the lovers' season. The
natterjack, sometimes as large as a plate, with a narrow stripe of
yellow down his back, makes his appointments here to take his
bath; when the evening twilight falls, we see hopping along the
edge the midwife toad, the male, who carries a cluster of eggs,
the size of peppercorns, wrapped round his hindlegs: the genial
paterfamilias has brought his precious packet from afar, to leave
it in the water and afterwards retire under some flat stone,
whence he will emit a sound like a tinkling bell. Lastly, when
not croaking amid the foliage, the tree frogs indulge in the most
graceful dives. And so, in May, as soon as it is dark, the pond
becomes a deafening orchestra: it is impossible to talk at table,
impossible to sleep. We had to remedy this by means perhaps a
little too rigorous. What could we do? He who tries to sleep
and cannot needs becomes ruthless.

Bolder still, the wasp has taken possession of the dwelling house.
On my door sill, in a soil of rubbish, nestles the white-banded
Sphex: when I go indoors, I must be careful not to damage her