One expects to see gnomes and fairies descend by the wide chimney, with the light that comes from above.
Outside, the sun gilds stills the branches of the oaks, the honeysuckle and the ferns.
Inside, in the lonely cottage, all is mysterious and dark.
Boudoul, boudoul! Galaïchen, galaïch du!
Rock your little grandson, rock him still, old woman in white frilled collar! Soon the Breton songs, and the old Bretons who sing them, will be no more!
And little Pierre joins his hands to say his evening prayer.
Word for word, in a very sweet voice which has a strong Toulven accent, he repeats, watching us the while, all that his grandmother knows of French:
"Oh God, and blessed Virgin Mary, and good Saint Anne, I pray to you for my father, for my mother, for my godfather, for my grandparents, for my little sister Yvonne. . . ."
"For my Uncle Goulven who is far away at sea," adds Yves in a grave voice.
And still more solemnly: