clatter. The brood had hearty appetites. And what gayety between the mouthfuls!
I was filled with pride and joy when the little ones held out their hands
toward me, crying:

"Grandpa, give us some bread! A big piece, grandpa!"

Oh! the good days! Our farm sang from every corner. In the evening, Pierre
invented games and related stories of his regiment. On Sunday Agathe made
cakes for the girls. Marie knew some canticles, which she sang like a
chorister.
She looked like a saint, with her blond hair falling on her neck and her
hands folded on her apron.

I had built another story on the house when Aimee had married Cyprien; and
I said laughingly that I would have to build another after the wedding of
Veronique and Gaspard. We never cared to leave each other. We would sooner
have built a city behind the farm, in our enclosure. When families are united,
it is so good to live and die where one has grown up!

The month of May had been magnificent that year. It was long since the
crops gave such good promise. That day precisely, I had made a tour of
inspection with my son, Jacques. We started at about three o'clock.
Our meadows on the banks of the Garonne were of a tender green. The
grass was three feet high, and an osier thicket, planted the year before,
had sprouts a yard high. From there we went to visit our wheat and our
vines, fields bought one by one as fortune came to us. The wheat was
growing strong; the vines, in full flower, promised a superb vintage. And
Jacques laughed his good laugh as he slapped me on the shoulder.

"Well, father, we shall never want for bread nor for wine. You must