After Mass I used to go with my mother to visit my grandparents in the fine vaulted kitchen of white stone, where usually congregated the notabilities of the place, Monsieur Deville, Monsieur Dumas, Monsieur Raboux, the younger Rivière, and discussed politics as they paced the stone-flagged floor to and fro between the fireplace and the dresser. Monsieur Dumas, who had been a judge and resigned in the year 1830, was specially fond of giving his advice to the young mothers present, such as these words of wisdom, for example, which he repeated regularly every Sunday: “Neither knives, keys, or books should be given to children--for with a knife the child may cut himself, a key he may lose, and a book he may tear.” Monsieur Dumas did not come alone: with his opulent wife and their eleven or twelve children they filled the parlour, the fine ancestral parlour, all hung with Marseilles tapestry on which were represented little birds and baskets of flowers. There, to show off the fine education of his progeny, proudly he made them declaim, verse by verse, a little from one, a little from another, the story of Théramène. This accomplished, he would turn to my mother: “And your young one, Delaïde--do you not teach him to recite something?” “Yes,” replied my mother simply; “he can say the little rhyme of ‘Jean du Porc.’” “Come, little one, recite ‘Jean du Porc,’” cried every one to me. Then with a bow to the company I would timidly falter: Quau es mort?--Jan dóu Porc. Quau lou plouro?--Lou rei Mouro. Quau lou ris?--La perdris. Quau lou canto?--La calandro. Quau ié viro à brand?--Lou quiéu de la sartan. Quau n’en porto dòu?--Lou quiéu dóu peiròu.[1] It was with these nursery rhymes, songs, and tales that our parents in those days taught us the good Provençal tongue. But at present, vanity having got the upper hand in most families, it is with the system of the worthy Monsieur Dumas that children are taught, and little nincompoops are turned out who have no more attachment or root in their country than foundlings, for it’s the fashion of to-day to abjure all that belongs to tradition. It is now time that I said a little of my maternal grandfather, the worthy goodman Étienne. He was, like my father, yeoman farmer, of an old family and a good stock, but with this difference, that whereas the Mistrals were workers, economists and amassers of wealth, who in all the country had not their like, the Poulinets were careless and happy-go-lucky, disliked hard work, let the water run and spent their harvests. My grandsire Étienne was, in short, a veritable Roger Bontemps.[2] In spite of having eight children, six of whom were girls, directly there was a fête anywhere, he was off with his boon companions for a three days’ spree. His outing lasted as long as his crowns; then, adaptive as a glove, his pockets empty, he returned to the house. Grandmother Nanon, a godly woman, would greet him with reproaches: