"Our old men and women, very attached to the Fête of the Chestnuts which brightened their youthful years, had quitted the fireside and had advanced to the first house of the village. There they drew up in file, ranged against the south wall. From one end of the line to the other the features were grave with wrinkles and furrows, softened on some by their white hair. Warped, bowed, shivering, they looked ahead with glassy eyes kindled with curiosity. The young folk of the mountain were about to pass by and they desired to see them, and in seeing them revive recollections of their own young days, and warm themselves thereat. "At the first house the arrivals halted; then waving their boughs in salutation, asked altogether, 'Good folk, how go the chestnuts this year?' 'Very well, children,' replied the old people. Then a little woman, aged eighty-five, detached herself from her nook in the wall and advanced towards the beaters. 'You have not forgotten, friends, the Complaint of the Chestnut Tree?' 'To be sure, the Complaint of the Chestnut Tree,' cried all. "From the midst of the grove of boughs carried in their hands, and which seemed suddenly to have taken root in the soil of the road, rose the _Complainte_ (ballad), so popular among the Cevenols of the south, and which, like most of their popular songs, express their toil, their sweat, their sighs of hunger at last assuaged by labour. "Quand le châtaignier est planté Il monte, monte, monte! Quand le châtaignier est planté Nous buvons largement à sa santé. Quand le châtaignier est en fleur, Belle, belle, belle! Quand le châtaignier est en fleur, Le pays prend son odeur. Quand le châtaignier a grainé, Il graine, graine, graine! Quand le châtaignier a grainé, Chacun danse dans son pré. Quand les châtaignes nous avons, Bonnes, bonnes, bonnes! Quand les châtaignes nous avons, Nous les mangeons, puis nous mourons. "After the fourth couplet the ballad was interrupted. Our Cevenols raised their boughs, brandished the leaves, and made therewith the sign of the cross. 'On your knees!' said the old woman, extending her hand. The beaters knelt at once. Then, all at once, from a thousand sturdy breasts young for the most part, rolled forth the final verse of the Complainte du Châtaignier. It was as grand, as beautiful, as sublime as any psalm, any hymn I have heard in any church. "Cévennes pleins de rochers, Hautes, hautes, hautes! Cévennes pleins de rochers, Faites nous forts et religieux."