"I've heard mother sing them, or something most like them:
"'Why does the fire no longer burn?
(I am so lonely.)
Why does the tent-door swing outward?
(I have no home.)
Oh, let me breathe hard in your face!
(I am so lonely.)
Oh, why do you shut your eyes to me?
(I have no home.)'"
The boy paused.
"Was that all, Dominique?"
"No, not all."
"'Let us make friends with the stars;
(I am so lonely.)
Give me your hand, I will hold it.
(I have no home.)
Let us go hunting together.
(I am so lonely.)
We will sleep at God's camp to-night.
(I have no home.)'"
Dominique did not sing, but recited the words with a sort of chanting inflection.
"What does it mean when you hear a voice like that, father?"
"I don't know. Who told—your mother—the song?"
"Oh, I don't know. I suppose she just made them up—she and God.... There! There it is again? Don't you hear it—don't you hear it, daddy?"