LEWƆN WƐRƐTI TƆGƆ LA

N bɛ hàkɛ̀to ɲini denmisɛnw fɛ, ka d’a kan n ye kitabu in sɛbɛn mɔ̀gɔ kɔrɔba dɔ tɔgɔ la. A kun bɛrɛbɛrɛ ye nǐn ye: mɔ̀gɔ kɔrɔba in ɲɔgɔnna tɛri sɛ̀bɛ tɛ n bolo dùgùkolo in kan.

Kun wɛrɛ b’a la: mɔ̀gɔ kɔrɔba in bɛ se ka fɛn bɛɛ faamuya, hali denmisɛnkitabuw. Kun sabanan ye nǐn ye: mɔ̀gɔ kɔrɔba in sigilen bɛ Faransi, kɔngɔ ni nɛnɛ na.

[REMOVED IN TRANSLATION / SUPPRIMÉE DANS LA TRADUCTION].

Ni nǐn kun ninnu si t’à bɔ, n bɛ kitabu in sɛbɛn mɔ̀gɔ kɔrɔba in denmisɛnnama tɔgɔ la.

Mɔgɔ kɔrɔba bɛɛ tɛ̀mɛna denmisɛnya fɛ (Nkà damadama dɔrɔn de hakili tɔr’a la). N bɛ n ka jansa yɛ̀lɛ̀ma.:

Lewɔn Wɛrɛti tɔgɔ la...

A denmisɛnnama

TO LÉON WERTH

I ask the indulgence of the children who may read this book for dedicating it to a grown-up. I have a serious reason: he is the best friend I have in the world.

I have another reason: this grown-up understands everything, even books about children. I have a third reason: he lives in France where he is hungry and cold.

He needs cheering up.

If all these reasons are not enough, I will dedicate the book to the child from whom this grown-up grew.

All grown-ups were once children -- although few of them remember it. And so I correct my dedication:

To Léon Werth...

when he was a little boy

I

A denmisɛnnama Ka ne tɔ̌ n sanji wɔɔrɔnan na, don dɔ, n ye ja dakabana dɔ ye kitabu dɔ kɔnɔ, min tun bɛ tu fǐn kun kan, n’a tɔgɔ tun ye " Ko yelenw ni kɔ kɛlenw ". Miniɲan dɔ tun don, a bɛ ka wara dɔ kunun.

Ja ladege filɛ.

Kitabu kɔnɔ, a fɔra: " Miniɲanw b’ǔ ka sogo minɛnen kuturu kunun ka sɔrɔ ǔ m’à ɲimi, ǒ kɔ ǔ tɛ se ka lamaga bilen, ǔ bɛ sùnɔgɔ ǔ ka dumuni lasumani kalo wɔɔrɔ waati kɔnɔ. "

N ka ja fɔlɔ. A tun bɛ tan:

Once when I was six years old I saw a magnificent picture in a book, called True Stories from Nature, about the primeval forest. It was a picture of a boa constrictor in the act of swallowing an animal.

Here is a copy of the drawing.

In the book it said: "Boa constrictors swallow their prey whole, without chewing it. After that they are not able to move, and they sleep through the six months that they need for digestion."

I pondered deeply, then, over the adventures of the jungle. It looked something like this:

N ka ja tun tɛ banfula ye. Miniɲan tun don min bɛ ka sàma kununnen lasuma a yɛ̀rɛ kɔnɔ. O la sǎ, n ye miniɲan kɔnɔna ja kɛ, walasa mɔ̀gɔ kɔrɔbaw ka se k’à faamuya. Fɔ kow ka ɲɛfɔ ǔ ye tùma bɛɛ. N ka ja filanan tun bɛ tan:

My drawing was not a picture of a hat. It was a picture of a boa constrictor digesting an elephant. But since the grown-ups were not able to understand it, I made another drawing: I drew the inside of the boa constrictor, so that the grown-ups could see it clearly. They always need to have things explained. My Drawing Number Two looked like this:

Mɔgɔ kɔrɔbaw ye n laadi ko n ka miniɲan bosolenw ni miniɲan bosobaliw ja ye k’ǔ to yěn, ka n sɛ̀bɛ don jamanakàlan, tarikukàlan, ani kansariyasunkàlan ma.

Nin cogo de la, ka n si to sanji wɔɔrɔ la, n ye jaɲɛgɛn ye k’à to yěn, ǒ dakabana baara in. N dùsu tun fàgara, ka da a kan n ka ja fɔlɔ ni n ka ja filanan ma sanga sɔrɔ. Mɔgɔ kɔrɔbaw tɛ fosi faamuya ǔ yɛ̀rɛ ma, ni denmisɛnninw dun b’a nyɛfɔ ǔ ye sanga ni waati bɛɛ, òlu bɛ sɛgɛn.

N wajibiyara sǎ ka baara wɛrɛ sugandi ; n ye pankurunboli dège, n ye bɛrɛ t’à jɛ diɲɛ mùmɛ taama pankurun na. Tiɲɛ don, jamanakàlan ɲɛna n ma kosɛbɛ. Filɛli ko kelen, n tun bɛ se ka sinuwajamana dɔn ka bɔ Arizɔna la.

A bɛ mɔ̀gɔ dɛ̀mɛ kosɛbɛ, n’i tununna su fɛ.

O cogo la, n ka diɲɛlatigɛ kɔnɔ, n ni mɔ̀gɔ sawalen caman donna ɲɔgɔn n ka tɛ̀mɛ. N sìgira mɔ̀gɔ kɔrɔbaw fɛ ka mɛɛn. N yěn magɛrɛ ǔ la kosɛbɛ k’ǔ kɔ̀lɔ̀si.

O ma n hakililata ɲɛ ǔ yɔrɔ. N tun mana bɛn ni dɔ ye min ɲɛma jɔlen dɔɔnin n ɲɛ na, n tun b’o dalakɔrɔbɔ ni n ka ja fɔlɔ ye ; a tun bɛ n kun tùma bɛɛ. N tun b’a fɛ k’à dɔn ni mɔ̀gɔ faamuyalen don.

Nka a tigilamɔgɔ tun bɛ n jaabi tùma bɛɛ: " Banfula don ". O la sǎ miniɲanko wo, tufinko wo, n tun t’ǒ si kuma fɔ a ye tugun.

N tun bɛ n yɛ̀rɛ bìla a kundama na. N tun bɛ birijikɔ, gɔlufuko, politigiko ni kankɔrɔfukɔ de fɔ a ye. Mɔgɔ kɔrɔba in tun bɛ nisɔndiya sǎ, kɔ ale bɛ ne ɲɔgɔn mɔ̀gɔ faamuyalen dɔn.

The grown-ups' response, this time, was to advise me to lay aside my drawings of boa constrictors, whether from the inside or the outside, and devote myself instead to geography, history, arithmetic, and grammar.

That is why, at the age of six, I gave up what might have been a magnificent career as a painter. I had been disheartened by the failure of my Drawing Number One and my Drawing Number Two. Grown-ups never understand anything by themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them.

So then I chose another profession, and learned to pilot airplanes. I have flown a little over all parts of the world; and it is true that geography has been very useful to me. At a glance I can distinguish China from Arizona.

If one gets lost in the night, such knowledge is valuable.

In the course of this life I have had a great many encounters with a great many people who have been concerned with matters of consequence. I have lived a great deal among grown-ups. I have seen them intimately, close at hand.

And that hasn't much improved my opinion of them. Whenever I met one of them who seemed to me at all clear-sighted, I tried the experiment of showing him my Drawing Number One, which I have always kept. I would try to find out, so, if this was a person of true understanding.

But, whoever it was, he, or she, would always say: “That is a hat.” Then I would never talk to that person about boa constrictors, or primeval forests, or stars.

I would bring myself down to his level. I would talk to him about bridge, and golf, and politics, and neckties. And the grown-up would be greatly pleased to have met such a sensible man.

II

Ne ye n ka diɲɛlatigɛ kɛ ten n kelen, mɔ̀gɔ si tɛ yěn n ni min bɛ se ka kuma kalalama fɔ, fo ka taa a bìla n ka bòlìfɛn tiɲɛdon na, don dɔ, Sahara cɛncɛnkungo kɔnɔ. Komin n ni bolifɛndilala walima dugutagalaw tun tɛ ɲɔgɔn fɛ, n ye n labɛn k’à lajɛ ni n kelenpe bɛ se ka ɲɛ sɔrɔ tiɲɛni jugu in na. Ne bolo n ni tun b’a da fɛ. N ka minniji tɔ̌ tun tɛ tìle seegin sɔrɔ yɛ̀rɛ.

O la sǎ, su fɔlɔ n sùnɔgɔra cɛ̀ncɛn kan ; mili ba caman tun bɛ n ni mɔgɔmayɔrɔ bɛɛ cɛ. N kelenninpe tun don i n’a fɔ mɔ̀gɔ min tora kɔ̀gɔ̀ji cɛ ma, kurun pɛnpɛrɛn kan.

O tùma n kabara cogo min kɛnɛbɔnda fɛ, dakabana kan misɛnnin dɔ kɛlen ka n lakunun, a tɛ se ka d’a la. A tun bɛ k’à fɔ

-- Hakɛ to sàga ja kɛ n ye.

-- Mun ?!

-- Saga ja kɛ n ye.

N panna ka jɔ n senw kan i n’a fɔ ni sanpɛrɛn de jiginna n kan. N ye n ɲɛw tereke kosɛbɛ.N ye filɛli kɛ kosɛbɛ. N ye dakabana cɛnin kurunnin dɔ ye, a bɛ ka n sɛbɛkɔrɔ filɛ. Kɔsa fɛ n sera ka a ja bɛɛ la ɲumaman min kɛ ǒ filɛ nǐn ye. Nkà n ka ja ɲɛ kɔni, a ma se ka kɛ cɛnin yɛ̀rɛ ye.

So I lived my life alone, without anyone that I could really talk to, until I had an accident with my plane in the Desert of Sahara, six years ago. Something was broken in my engine. And as I had with me neither a mechanic nor any passengers, I set myself to attempt the difficult repairs all alone. It was a question of life or death for me: I had scarcely enough drinking water to last a week.

The first night, then, I went to sleep on the sand, a thousand miles from any human habitation. I was more isolated than a shipwrecked sailor on a raft in the middle of the ocean.

Thus you can imagine my amazement, at sunrise, when I was awakened by an odd little voice. It said:

“If you please — draw me a sheep!”

“What!”

“Draw me a sheep!”

I jumped to my feet, completely thunderstruck. I blinked my eyes hard. I looked carefully all around me. And I saw a most extraordinary small person, who stood there examining me with great seriousness. Here you may see the best portrait that, later, I was able to make of him. But my drawing is certainly very much less charming than its model.

Mɔgɔ kàna jìgi n na. Mɔgɔ kɔrɔbaw tun ye n ka jaɲɛgɛnbaara nège bɔ n na, kàbini n si bɛ sanji wɔɔrɔ la ; ne dun tun ma fosi ɲɛ̀gɛnni dège ni miniɲan bosobaliw ni miniɲan bosolenw tɛ.

N dàbàli bannen ye n ɲɛ boso sǎ, ka fɛn poyilen nǐn lajɛ. A’ kàna ɲinɛ kɔ mili ba caman tun bɛ n ni mɔgɔmayɔrɔ bɛɛ cɛ. A dun tun tɛ i n’a fɔ n ka cɛnin tununnen don, walima k’à sɛgɛnnen don kojugu, walima ko kɔngɔ, walima minnɔgɔ, walima siraɲa bɛ ɲini k’à si ban.

Fosi tun t’à jira k’à fɔ ko denmisɛnnin tununnen don cɛncɛnkungo kɔnɔ, min ni mɔgɔmayɔrɔ fɛn ǒ fɛn cɛ tun ye mili ba caman ye.

N sera ka kuma tùma min n ko a ma: -- Hɛn e bɛ ka mǔn kɛ yǎn ?

A sɛ̀ginna k’à fɔ, n’a kan sumanen ye, i n’a fɔ ko sɛbɛba:

-- Sabali sǎ sàga ja kɛ n ye...

Ni kabako binna mɔ̀gɔ da kan, i tɛ se k’i ban. Mili ba caman tun bɛ n ni mɔgɔmayɔrɔ bɛɛ cɛ, n ni tun bɛ fàràti la, wale kunntan tun don n ɲɛ na dɛ, ǒ bɛɛ n’a ta n ye sɛbɛnfura kelen bɔ n jufa kɔnɔ, ani dabakala.

Nka n hakili jiginna ǒ tùma ko n ka kàlan tun bɛnna jamanakàlan, tarikukàlan, jàte ani kansariyasunkàlan de ma kosɛbɛ ; n ko cɛnin kunkurunnin ma (ni nisɔngɔnya dɔɔnin ye) ko n tɛ sɛ jaɲɛgɛn na. A ye n jaabi:

-- O tɛ fosi tiɲɛ. Saga ja kɛ n ye.

Saga ja kɛ n ye. Komin n tun ma deli ka sàga ja kɛ, n tun bɛ se ja fìlànin pe min na, n y’ǒ kelen kɛ a ye.

Miniɲan bosobali ja. N dakabana banna, cɛnin kurunnin kɛlen ka n jaabi

-- Ayi ! Ayi ! N tɛ miniɲan fɛ sàma bɛ min kɔnɔ.

Miniɲan ka jugu, wa sàma bɛ mɔ̀gɔ dègun kojugu. Ne bara ka dɔgɔ.

N fana ye ja kɛ. A y’a filɛ fururu, ka tila k’à fɔ

The grown-ups discouraged me in my painter's career when I was six years old, and I never learned to draw anything, except boas from the outside and boas from the inside.

Now I stared at this sudden apparition with my eyes fairly starting out of my head in astonishment. Remember, I had crashed in the desert a thousand miles from any inhabited region. And yet my little man seemed neither to be straying uncertainly among the sands, nor to be fainting from fatigue or hunger or thirst or fear.

Nothing about him gave any suggestion of a child lost in the middle of the desert, a thousand miles from any human habitation.

When at last I was able to speak, I said to him: “But — what are you doing here?”

And in answer he repeated, very slowly, as if he were speaking of a matter of great consequence:

“If you please — draw me a sheep...”

When a mystery is too overpowering, one dare not disobey. Absurd as it might seem to me, a thousand miles from any human habitation and in danger of death, I took out of my pocket a sheet of paper and my fountain-pen.

But then I remembered how my studies had been concentrated on geography, history, arithmetic and grammar, and I told the little chap (a little crossly, too) that I did not know how to draw. He answered me:

“That doesn't matter. Draw me a sheep...”

But I had never drawn a sheep. So I drew for him one of the two pictures I had drawn so often.

It was that of the boa constrictor from the outside. And I was astounded to hear the little fellow greet it with:

“No, no, no! I do not want an elephant inside a boa constrictor. A boa constrictor is a very dangerous creature, and an elephant is very cumbersome.

Where I live, everything is very small. What I need is a sheep. Draw me a sheep.”

So then I made a drawing.

A y’a filɛ fururu, ka tila k’à fɔ:

-- Ayi ! Bana digilen don nǐn na ka ban. N y’a ɲɛ̀gɛn.

Dɔ wɛrɛ kɛ.

He looked at it carefully, then he said:

“No. This sheep is already very sickly. Make me another.”

So I made another drawing.

N y’a ɲɛ̀gɛn. N terikɛ mugurira yɛrɛrɛ, ni kɔnɔnandiya ye

-- I ɲɛ b’a la yɛ̀rɛ sàga tɛ, sàgàjígí don. Gere b’a la...

N seginna n ka ja kan tun ǒ tùma.

My friend smiled gently and indulgently.

“You see yourself,” he said, "that this is not a sheep. This is a ram.

So then I did my drawing over once more.

Nka a banna ǒ fana na, i n’a fɔ tɔw.

-- Nin kɔrɔla kojugu. N bɛ sàga sitigi de fe.

O la sǎ, ne dɛsɛra ka n timinandiya, barì n tun kɔrɔtɔlen don ka n ka bolifen mɔtɛri waraka ; n ye ja in nkininkana.

But it was rejected too, just like the others.

“This one is too old. I want a sheep that will live a long time.”

By this time my patience was exhausted, because I was in a hurry to start taking my engine apart. So I tossed off this drawing.

N ko: -- Nin ye wàgànde ye. I bɛ sàga min fɛ, a b’a kɔnɔ.

Nka n dakabana banna, n kɛlen ka n kiiribaganin ɲɛ fonitɔla ye: -- N tun bɛ nǐn de fɛ tigitigi. E ko sàga in bɛ bin caman ɲimi ?

-- Munna ?

-- Bari ne bara ka dɔgɔ kojugu

-- Yen bɛ bɔli kɛ jaati. N ye sàga fitinin de di i ma.

A y’a kun jɛngɛn ja kan: A man dɔgɔ ɔ cogo la dɛ... E ! A sùnɔgɔra...

Wa n ye masadennin dɔn nǐn cogo in de la.

And I threw out an explanation with it. “This is only his box. The sheep you asked for is inside.”

I was very surprised to see a light break over the face of my young judge: “That is exactly the way I wanted it! Do you think that this sheep will have to have a great deal of grass?”

“Why?”

“Because where I live everything is very small...”

“There will surely be enough grass for him,” I said. "It is a very small sheep that I have given you."

He bent his head over the drawing. “Not so small that — Look! He has gone to sleep...”

And that is how I made the acquaintance of the little prince.

III

A mɛɛnna sanni n ka a bɔyɔrɔ dɔn. Masadennin tun tɛ ban ne ɲìnìnka la, nkà a tun bɛ i ko ale tɛ ne ka ɲininkaliw mɛn.

A tun bɛ fili ka kuma minw fɔ òlu de ye kɔw lajɛya ne ye dɔɔnin dɔɔnin. I n’a fɔ a ye n ka pankurun ye siɲɛ fɔlɔ min (n tena n ka pankurun ja kɛ, ja don min ɲɛ̀gɛnnin ka gɛ̀lɛn n ma kɔjugu) a ye n ɲìnìnka

-- Nin ye fɛn sugu jùmɛn ye ?

- Fɛn fosi tɛ. A bɛ pan. Pankurun don.

Fo ka n kunnawolo, n kɛlen k’à ladɔnniya ko n bɛ pankurun bòli. O tùma a kabara

-- I ko di ? I binna ka bɔ.

N ko ɔ̀nhɔn, ka dan ǒ ma.

-- Aa, nǐn ye yɛlɛko ye

Masadennin ye yɛlɛba cɛ ɲǐ dɔ kɛ min ye n dùsu bɔ kosɛbɛ. N b’a fɛ mɔgɔw ka n ka bɔnɛ kɛ sɛbɛko ye. A tilala k’à fɔ

-- O tùma e fana bɔra kabakolo la ! E ye tìle nɔfɛdolo jùmɛn mɔ̀gɔ ye ?

O yɔrɔ bɛɛ n y’a damìnɛ k’à bɔyɔrɔ gundo faamuya dɔɔnin. N girinna ka ɲìnìnkàli kɛ:

-- Safɛ e bɛ bɔ tìle nɔfɛdolo ?

Nka a ma n jaabi. A tun bɛ ka a kun lamaga yɛrɛrɛ, ka to ka n ka pankurun mafilɛ:

—- Tiɲɛ don, k’i to nǐn kɔnɔ i bɔyɔrɔ tɛ se ka yɔrɔ jaɲa ten.

A tilala ka bin miiri banbali dɔ la. O kɔ, a ye n ka sàga bɔ a jufa kɔnɔ, k’à màgo bɛn a ka fɛnba filɛli ma.

A’ ka kan k’à dɔ cogo min n lafilila " tìle nɔfɛdolo wɛrɛw " gundo fɔlen n ye, ka dan sira cɛ. N ye n jija dɔ ka fara n ka ko dɔnnenw kan

-- Cɛnin, e be ba min ? I " bara " ye yɔrɔ jùmɛn ye ? I b’a fɛ ka taa ni n ka sàga ye min ?

A y’i mǎkǔn, ka miiri, ka sɔrɔ ka na jaabi :

-- I ye wàgànde min di n ma, min y’a kɛ a ka fìsa dɛ, su fɛ a bɛ somago ɲɛ sàga ye.

-- Ɔ̀nhɔn ke. Wa n’i ɲɛna, n bɛ jurukisɛ d’i ma walasa i k’à sìri tìle fɛ. Ani bɔlɔ.

A bɛ i ko ǒ kuma balala masadennin na

-- K’à sìri ? Kabako !

N’i m’à sìri, yɔrɔ min ka di a yea bɛ taa yěn, a na tunun.

N terikɛ ye yɛlɛ kunba dɔ kɛ tun.

-- E b’a fɛ a ka taa min sǎ ?

-- Yɔrɔ min ka di a ye. A kuntilenna na fururu

A kuntilenna na fururu Masadennin y’i kan to, a sɛ̀bɛ la

-- O tɛ fɛn tiɲɛ ; ne bara ka dɔgɔ cogo min !

A tilala k’à fɔ, i n’a fɔ mɔ̀gɔ min jìgi lamisɛɲalen don dɔɔnin:

-- I kuntilɛnna na fururu i tɛ se ka taa yɔrɔ jan han...

It took me a long time to learn where he came from. The little prince, who asked me so many questions, never seemed to hear the ones I asked him.

The first time he saw my airplane, for instance (I shall not draw my airplane; that would be much too complicated for me), he asked me:

What is that object?

"That is not an object. It flies. It is an airplane. It is my airplane."

And I was proud to have him learn that I could fly. He cried out, then:

What! You dropped down from the sky?

Yes, I answered, modestly.

"Oh! That is funny!"

And the little prince broke into a lovely peal of laughter, which irritated me very much. I like my misfortunes to be taken seriously. Then he added:

So you, too, come from the sky! Which is your planet?

At that moment I caught a gleam of light in the impenetrable mystery of his presence; and I demanded, abruptly:

Do you come from another planet?

But he did not reply. He tossed his head gently, without taking his eyes from my plane:

"It is true that on that you can't have come from very far away..."

And he sank into a reverie, which lasted a long time. Then, taking my sheep out of his pocket, he buried himself in the contemplation of his treasure.

You can imagine how my curiosity was aroused by this half-confidence about the "other planets." I made a great effort, therefore, to find out more on this subject.

"My little man, where do you come from? What is this 'where I live,' of which you speak?

After a reflective silence he answered:

"The thing that is so good about the box you have given me is that at night he can use it as his house."

"That is so. And if you are good I will give you a string, too, so that you can tie him during the day, and a post to tie him to."

But the little prince seemed shocked by this offer:

Tie him! What a queer idea!

But if you don't tie him, I said, "he will wander off somewhere, and get lost."

My friend broke into another peal of laughter:

"But where do you think he would go?"

"Anywhere. Straight ahead of him."

Then the little prince said, earnestly:

"That doesn't matter. Where I live, everything is so small!"

And, with perhaps a hint of sadness, he added:

"Straight ahead of him, nobody can go very far..."

IV

N tun ye fenba wɛrɛ don ǒ cogo la ten: a bora tìle nɔfedolo min na bɛrɛ tun t'ǒ ni sǒ ce bònya na!

O tun tɛ se ka bala n na kosɛbɛ. N tun b’a dɔn tigitigi ko k’à bɔ tìle nɔfɛdolobaw la, i n’a fɔ Dugukolo, Zupitɛrɛ, Marisi, Wenisi, tɔgɔ dara minw na, ko ǒ ɲɔgɔnna caman wɛrɛw bɛ yěn ; ǔ dɔgɔya kojugu kosɔ̌n tùma dɔw la, ǔ ye ka gɛ̀lɛn kosɛbɛ yɔrɔjanfilɛlan na.

Ni kabakolo-kàlanna dɔ bɔra a dɔ dan, a bɛ jɔda dɔ da a la k’ǒ kɛ a tɔgɔ ye. A b’a wele i n’a fɔ " dolobisigi 3251. "

I had thus learned a second fact of great importance: this was that the planet the little prince came from was scarcely any larger than a house!

But that did not really surprise me much. I knew very well that in addition to the great planets — such as the Earth, Jupiter, Mars, Venus — to which we have given names, there are also hundreds of others, some of which are so small that one has a hard time seeing them through the telescope.

When an astronomer discovers one of these he does not give it a name, but only a number. He might call it, for example, "Asteroid 3251".

Gansan m’à to n dalen b’a la ko masadennin bɛ bɔ tìle nɔfɛdolo min na ko ǒ ye dolobisigi B 612 ye.

O dolobisigi in yera siɲɛ kelen dɔrɔn yɔrɔjanfilɛlan na, sǎn 1909 na, Turuki kabakolokàlanna dɔ fɛ.

I have serious reason to believe that the planet from which the little prince came is the asteroid known as B-612.

This asteroid has only once been seen through the telescope. That was by a Turkish astronomer, in 1909.

O waati la a tun y’a ka fɛn kura sɔrɔlen ɲɛfɔ kosɛbɛdiɲɛ kabakolokàlannaw ka tɔnsigiba la, nkà mɔ̀gɔ si tun màda a la, a ye fìni minw don ǒ kosɔ̌n, Mɔgɔ kɔrɔbaw bɛ ten.

Ni dolobisigi B 612 dɔnna kosɛbɛ, a sababu ɲùman bɔra Turukiw ka jɔnkanifangatigi dɔ de la ; a y’a ka jamanadenw wajibiya ka nansarafini don, ko n’ǒ tɛ fàgali b’a da fɛ.

San 1920 na, kabakolokàlanna ye bugafini dɔ don k’à ka fɛn kura sɔrɔlen ɲɛfɔ tuguni. Nin siɲɛ in na, bɛɛ sɔnna a ta ma.

Ni n ye dolobisigi B 612 kunkakuma in fɛsɛfɛsɛ aw ye, n y’a kɛ mɔ̀gɔ kɔrɔbaw de kosɔ̌n. Mɔgɔ kɔrɔbaw bɛjatew fɛ. N’i ye i teri kura dɔ kofɔ ǔ ye, ǔ t’i ɲìnìnka ko kalalama la abada. U t’à fɔ i ye abada: " A kumakan bɛ di ? Tulon sugu jùmɛn ka di a ye ? A bɛ nfirinfirinin màra wa ? "

U b’i ɲìnìnka: " A si ye sanji joli ye ? " A kɔrɔw n’a dɔgɔw ye joli ye ?" A kɔrɔw n’a dɔgɔw ye joli ye ? A giriɲa hakɛ ye joli ye ? O tùma dɔrɔn de a bɛ kɛ ǔ ɲɛ na k’à fɔ ǔ b’a dɔn.

N’i ko mɔ̀gɔ kɔrɔbaw ma: " N ye tufabilenso dɔ ye, zeraɲonmu b’a fiɲɛminɛwow la, ntubannin jɛw b’a bili sǎn fɛ... " ǔ bɛ dɛsɛ ka sǒ in bìsigiya.

Fɔ i k’à fɔ ǔ ye: " N ye waamuganso dɔ ye ", ǒ tùma ǔ bɛ kaba: " Nkà a cɛ ka ɲǐ sǎ !

N’i ko ǔ ma fana: " Min b’a jira k’à fɔ ko masadennin tun bɛ diɲɛ na, ǒ ye ko a tun cɛ ka ɲǐ kosɛbɛ, ko a tun bɛ yɛlɛ, ko a tun bɛ sàga fɛ, ni mɔ̀gɔ bɛ sàga fɛ, ǒ b’a jira k’à fɔ i bɛ diɲɛ na ", ǔ na ǔ kaman yonko, ka i denmisɛnniya minɛ ! Nkà n’i ko ǔ ma: " a tun bɛ bɔ tìle nɔfɛdolo min na ǒ ye dolobisigi B 612 ye ". O tùma ǔ bɛ da i la, ka hɛɛrɛ kɛ i kan ni ǔ ka ɲininkaliw ye. U bɛ ten. Mɔgɔ man kan ka jìgin ǔ la. Denmisɛnw ka kan k’ǔ dùsu màda mɔ̀gɔ kɔrɔbaw kɔrɔ kosɛbɛ.

Nka sǎ, anw minw bɛ diɲɛ faamuya, an màgo bɛ jɔdaw la wa ? A tun ka di n ye ka maana in damìnɛ i n’a fɔ jinɛmusoɲumanko bɛ nsiirin minw na. A tun ka di n ye k’à fɔ:

Cɛnin dɔ tun bɛ yěn, a tun b’a ka diɲɛlatigɛ kɛ tìle nɔfɛdolo dɔ kan, min man bɔn n’a yɛ̀rɛ ye kosɛbɛ ; a tun teriɲinitɔ don Minw bɛ diɲɛ faamuya, a tun bɛ bɔ tiɲɛ fɛ òlu ɲɛ na kosɛbɛ ka tɛ̀mɛ nǐn cogo kan.

Bari n’ta fɛ mɔgɔw ka n ka kitabu manamana kàlan. Nin ko kɔrɔw maana bɔli bɛ gan n dùsu la cogo min. A sǎn wɔɔrɔ ye nǐn ye ka ban, kàbini n terikɛ taara n'a ka sàga ye. Ni n be n jija k'a fo yǎn a tun be cogo min, n t'a fe ka ɲinɛ a kɔ de. Mɔgɔ ka ɲinɛ i teri ko, dusukasiko don. Bɛɛ ma deli ka teri màra. O ni fana n bɛ se ka kɛ i ko mɔ̀gɔ kɔrɔba minw màgo tɛ fosi la tugun jatedenw kɔ. O fana de kosɔ̌n n ye kiriyɔn ɲɛma buwati kelen sǎn, a ni kiriyɔn gansanw. N si bɛ yɔrɔ min na, ka sègin jaɲɛgɛn ma, a ka gɛ̀lɛn, sanko n ma n yɛ̀rɛ sifilɛ fosi la ni miniɲan bosobali ni miniɲan bosolen tɛ, ka n si to sanji wɔɔrɔ la ! N kɔni bɛ n jija ka jaw kɛ minw bɔlen bɛ ǔ tigi fɛ kosɛbɛ.

Nka n dalen tɛ a la k’à fɔ n bɛna se. Ja do ka fìsa, to kelen bolen te a fe tugun. N bɛ fili dɔɔnin fana kundama na. Yan, masadennin ka jan kojugu. Yan, a ka dɔgɔ kojugu. N bɛ sigasiga fana a ka finiw ɲɛ na. O de kosɔ̌n b bɛ mɔmɔli kɛ fan ni fan, ɲɛ ni ɲɛbaliya cɛ. N na fili fana yɔrɔ misɛnnin dɔw la minw ɲɛci ka bon kosɛbɛ. Nkà a' kàna jìgin na. N tɛrikɛ tun tɛ fosi ɲɛfɔ. I b’a sɔrɔ a ɲɛ na ne tun ye a ɲɔgɔn dɔ ye. Nkà ne kunna ma diya, n tɛ se ka sagaw ye wàgànde datugulenw kɔnɔ. I b’a sɔrɔ n ni mɔ̀gɔ kɔrɔbaw ka surun ɲɔgɔn na. N kɔ̀rɔlen na kɛ.

On making his discovery, the astronomer had presented it to the International Astronomical Congress, in a great demonstration. But he was in Turkish costume, and so nobody would believe what he said.

Fortunately, however, for the reputation of Asteroid B-612, a Turkish dictator made a law that his subjects, under pain of death, should change to European costume.

So in 1920 the astronomer gave his demonstration all over again, dressed with impressive style and elegance. And this time everybody accepted his report.

If I have told you these details about the asteroid, and made a note of its number for you, it is on account of the grown-ups and their ways. When you tell them that you have made a new friend, they never ask you any questions about essential matters. They never say to you, "What does his voice sound like? What games does he love best? Does he collect butterflies?"

Instead, they demand: "How old is he? How many brothers has he? How much does he weigh? How much money does his father make?" Only from these figures do they think they have learned anything about him.

If you were to say to the grown-ups: "I saw a beautiful house made of rosy brick, with geraniums in the windows and doves on the roof," they would not be able to get any idea of that house at all.

You would have to say to them: "I saw a house that cost $20,000." Then they would exclaim: "Oh, what a pretty house that is!"

Just so, you might say to them: "The proof that the little prince existed is that he was charming, that he laughed, and that he was looking for a sheep. If anybody wants a sheep, that is a proof that he exists." And what good would it do to tell them that? They would shrug their shoulders, and treat you like a child. But if you said to them: "The planet he came from is Asteroid B-612," then they would be convinced, and leave you in peace from their questions. They are like that. One must not hold it against them. Children should always show great forbearance toward grown-up people.

But certainly, for us who understand life, figures are a matter of indifference. I should have liked to begin this story in the fashion of the fairy-tales. I should have like to say:

"Once upon a time there was a little prince who lived on a planet that was scarcely any bigger than himself, and who had need of a sheep..." To those who understand life, that would have given a much greater air of truth to my story.

For I do not want any one to read my book carelessly. I have suffered too much grief in setting down these memories. It is for that purpose, again, that I have bought a box of paints and some pencils. It is hard to take up drawing again at my age, when I have never made any pictures except those of the boa constrictor from the outside and the boa constrictor from the inside, since I was six. I shall certainly try to make my portraits as true to life as possible.

But I am not at all sure of success. One drawing goes along all right, and another has no resemblance to its subject. I make some errors, too, in the little prince's height: in one place he is too tall and in another too short. And I feel some doubts about the color of his costume. So I fumble along as best I can, now good, now bad, and I hope generally fair-to-middling. In certain more important details I shall make mistakes, also. But that is something that will not be my fault. My friend never explained anything to me. He thought, perhaps, that I was like himself. But I, alas, do not know how to see sheep through t he walls of boxes. Perhaps I am a little like the grown-ups. I have had to grow old.