When he had seen to all the animals the cowherd made me sit down next to him in the chestnut avenue. Sitting there we could see the bend in the lane which went up towards the high-road, and the whole of the farm. The farm buildings formed a square and the huge dunghill in the middle of the yard gave off a warm smell, which mixed with the smell of the half-dried hay. The farm was wrapped in silence. I sat and looked all round me. I could see nothing but pine trees and corn fields. I felt as though I had suddenly been dropped into a faraway country, where I should always remain, along with the cowherd, and the animals which I could hear moving in their stables. It was very hot and I was numb with a heavy longing to go to sleep, but fear of all the new things which were round me prevented me from letting myself drop off. Flies of all possible colours whizzed round me with a little snoring noise. The cowherd was making a basket of rushes, and the dogs lay at our feet fast asleep.
Just as the sun was setting, the farmer's cart turned slowly round the bend in the lane. There were five people in it, two men and three women. As they passed us, the farmer's wife smiled down at me, and the others leaned forward to see me. Soon afterwards the farm filled with noise, and as it was too late to make soup for supper we all supped off a piece of bread and a bowl of milk.
[1] On a French farm the farmer is always called "Master."
Next day the farmer's wife gave me a cloak, and I went out with old Bibiche to learn how to look after the lambs. Old Bibiche and her dog Castille were so like one another that I always thought they must belong to the same family. They looked about the same age, and their eyes were about the same colour. Whenever the lambs ran off the path Bibiche would say, "Bark, Castille, bark." She said it very quickly, almost in one word, and even when Castille did not bark the lambs got back into line again. The old woman's voice was so like that of her dog.
When harvesting began it seemed to me as though I were taking part in something full of mystery. Men went up to the corn and laid it on the ground with regular sweeping strokes, while others picked it up again in sheaves, which they stacked one against the other. The cries of the harvesters seemed to come from above sometimes, and every now and then I looked up quickly, expecting to see golden corn-laden chariots fly past above my head.
We all had our evening meal together. Everybody sat down where they pleased at the long table, and the farmer's wife filled our plates to the brim. The younger ones munched with appetite, while the older ones cut each mouthful as though it were something precious. Everybody ate in silence, and the brown bread looked whiter in their black hands. At the end of the meal the elder ones talked about harvests with the farmer, while the younger ones talked and laughed with Martine, the shepherdess. She answered everybody's jokes, and laughed heartily at them; but if one of the men stretched out a hand towards her she skipped out of the way, and never let him get hold of her. Nobody paid any attention to me. I sat on a pile of logs a little way away from the rest of them, and looked at all their faces. Master Silvain had big brown eyes which looked at each one in turn, and rested quietly on them as he looked. He never raised his voice, and leaned his open hands on the table when he spoke. His wife's voice was serious and pre-occupied. She always looked as though she were expecting some misfortune to happen and she scarcely smiled at all, even when all the others were roaring with laughter.
Old Bibiche always thought that I was falling asleep. She would come and pull my sleeve, and take me off to bed. Her bed was next to mine. She mumbled her prayers while she was undressing, and always blew the lamp out without waiting to see whether I was ready.
Directly after the harvest, Bibiche let me go to the fields alone with her dog. Old Castille didn't care for my company. She used to leave me whenever she could and go back to the farm to Bibiche. I had a lot of trouble in keeping my lambs together. They ran every way at once. I compared myself to Sister Marie-Aimée, who always said that her little flock was hard to manage. And yet she used to get us together at one stroke of the bell and she could always make us perfectly quiet by raising her voice a little. But I might raise my voice or crack my whip as much as I liked, the lambs did not understand me, and I was obliged to run about all round the flock as though I were a sheep dog. One evening two lambs were missing. I always stood in the doorway every evening to let them in one by one so that I could count them easily. I went into the pen and tried to count them again. It was not easy and I had to give it up at last, for every time I counted them again I made their number more than there really were. At last I made up my mind that I must have counted them wrong the first time, and I did not say anything to anybody.