neat herds; one and all, by the very force of things, of not the
least account in the nice matters of observation.

And yet, in me, the observer, the inquirer into things began to
take shape almost in infancy. Why should I not describe my first
discoveries? They are ingenuous in the extreme, but will serve
notwithstanding to tell us something of the way in which tendencies
first show themselves. I was five or six years old. That the poor
household might have one mouth less to feed, I had been placed in
grandmother's care, as I have just been saying. Here, in solitude,
my first gleams of intelligence were awakened amidst the geese, the
calves and the sheep. Everything before that is impenetrable
darkness. My real birth is at that moment when the dawn of
personality rises, dispersing the mists of unconsciousness and
leaving a lasting memory. I can see myself plainly, clad in a
soiled frieze frock flapping against my bare heels; I remember the
handkerchief hanging from my waist by a bit of string, a
handkerchief often lost and replaced by the back of my sleeve.

There I stand one day, a pensive urchin, with my hands behind my
back and my face turned to the sun. The dazzling splendor
fascinates me. I am the Moth attracted by the light of the lamp.
With what am I enjoying the glorious radiance: with my mouth or my
eyes? That is the question put by my budding scientific curiosity.
Reader, do not smile: the future observer is already practicing and
experimenting. I open my mouth wide and close my eyes: the glory
disappears. I open my eyes and shut my mouth: the glory reappears.
I repeat the performance, with the same result. The question's
solved: I have learnt by deduction that I see the sun with my eyes.
Oh, what a discovery! That evening, I told the whole house all