The Autobiography of a Flea

I left England, wafted by a favorable wind blowing to the south, and found refuge in a little village in Provence, aptly named Languecuisse-which, for those astute readers who are not fluent in the French language, is translated to mean "Tongue Thigh." An interesting name although I must say that I did not choose the site purposely; I simply was opportunist enough to let the wind carry me where it would. Autumn was not far off, and the chilly climate of England did not appeal to me since I would have been forced to go into hiding or hibernation, limiting my chances of nourishment and also of diversified contact with interesting people. For even a lowly Flea may have aspirations to culture, mark that well. The village of Languecuisse was dominated by vineyards where noble wines were pressed from the rich grapes. In all, I should say there were perhaps two hundred people residing in that charming region, for nature had endowed Languecuisse with beauty that delighted the eye of the beholder. Once I landed, I found myself in a little valley surrounded almost entirely by rolling hills and protected from the gusty winds that can wreak havoc not only on tender grapes but also on my own kind. The soil was wonderfully fertile, as it must be to produce the lush white and purple grapes whose nearly bursting skins yield the Burgundies and Sauternes and Chablis which I am told those of means are wont to imbibe. Besides the vineyards, there were carefully tended gardens and hedges, and many plots of vegetables. All this told me at once that the inhabitants of Languecuisse were not starving, and that in turn meant that I should not grow meager and pine away for lack of nourishment. For, if the human race is one of opportunists, then assuredly we Fleas, being part of the divine scheme of things, are equally so; from this you may draw the logical inference that a Flea would rather attach himself to a person goodly in flesh than to one who is lean and jaundiced. I had arrived, it appeared, just in time for the September harvesting of the grapes, judging from the comments of the beldames whom I heard as I broke away from the friendly breeze that had borne me over the Channel to this exquisite little valley in the heart of France. I found temporary lodging on the beam of a door to a pleasant little cottage not far from the largest vineyard, and there, a plump red haired woman in cap and apron was gossiping with her neighbor, a black-haired, olive-skinned wench with bold eyes and breasts that strained against the low-cut bodice of her muslin dress. "Tomorrow, Dame Margot," the plumper one was saying, "we shall see how well the good grapes can be pressed. I myself intend to take part in the contest." "I trust, then, Dame Lucille, that your wind and stamina will hold out. Your intentions are good, but to stand in a wine vat in the hot sun and tread the grapes even for half an hour would tax a maiden many summers less your own age," was the brunette's taunting retort

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