Today is Sunday. This morning is special. The children are lying down in the shade; they are there as if forgotten, under the trees; they're resting.
Blessèd pine!
Through the interstices of the branches they see the sky. The branches divide up into numerous smaller branches; and these once more into very tiny twigs which resemble innumerable fine cords, knotted like nets.
The leaves, which are like needles make fringes and in them plays the wind and also the blue sky.
The pine sways and the edge of the shadow sways with it. It murmurs like the distant sea. If only they could stay there for yours, lying listening to this lullaby!
Only their mother could have sung to them such a sweet song when she cared for them in the cradle.
Didn't the young shepherdess say the other time that the trees have a gentle hand and give caresses? All the children felt this caress.
Blessèd pine!