started at three in the morning and arrived at five in the afternoon, but
was only able to exchange a few words with his son. They could not even
'break a crust' together. The old man then turned his face towards his
village, and walked the whole night.

'I hope your son would walk as far to see you,' I said, with a little
scepticism in my mind.

This is what he replied, almost word for word:

'Ah! children do not do for their parents what their parents do for them.
The commandment says, 'Honour your father and your mother'--not honour your
children. Nevertheless, it is the parents who deny themselves the most. As
soon as your children are married they generally forget you.

Perhaps if I had married again I should be happier now. All the same, I
am contented. I can keep myself. When I am no longer able to take care of
myself, my children must do something for me.'

I confess that I was sorry when the time came for me to leave this old man,
knowing well that I should never see again his rugged face and his kind
eyes twinkling under their shaggy brows. Perhaps he, too, had some such
regret, for we had had a long talk, and he may have tired out all his other
listeners, especially those of his own family. When a man has grown old
and is near the end, it would often be better for him to go out into the
wilderness and talk to the rocks and trees than to repeat the stories of
his life upon his own hearth-stone. Before I left the peasant fetched a
bottle, which he only brought out on rare occasions, and insisted upon my
drinking a parting glass with him.