Little Poems in Prose

there was not, to tell the truth, any longer the bone of contention. The piece of bread had disappeared, and was scattered in crumbs like the grains of sand with which it was mingled. This sight hard darkened the landscape for me, and the calm joy, in which my soul danced before it saw these miniatures of men, had vanished utterly. On that account I remained sad for a long while, saying to myself over and over again, “There is then a sublime country where bread is called cake, and is so rare a delicacy that it may beget war between broth- ers.”