Perhaps some of you may have read a book called ‘Kenneth; or the Rear-Guard of the Grand Army’ of Napoleon. If so, you will remember how the two children found in Russia were taken care of by the French soldiers and prevented as far as possible from suffering from the horrors of the terrible Retreat. One of the soldiers, a Breton, often tried to make them forget how cold and hungry they were by telling them tales of his native country, Brittany, which is full of wonderful things. The best and warmest place round the camp fire was always given to the children, but even so the bitter frost would cause them to shiver. It was then that the Breton would begin: ‘Plouhinec is a small town near Hennebonne by the sea,’ and would continue until Kenneth or Effie would interrupt him with an eager question. Then he forgot how his mother had told him the tale, and was obliged to begin all over again, so the story lasted a long while, and by the time it was ended the children were ready to be rolled up in what ever coverings could be found, and go to sleep. It is this story that I am going to tell to you.  
Plouhinec is a small town near Hennebonne by the sea. Around it stretches a , where no corn can be grown, and the grass is so coarse that no beast grows fat on it. Here and there are of fir trees, and small are so thick on the ground that you might almost take it for a beach. On the further side, the fairies, or korigans, as the people called them, had set up long long ago two rows of huge stones; indeed, so tall and heavy were they, that it seemed as if all the fairies in the world could not have placed them upright.
 
Not far off them this great stone avenue, and on the banks of the little river Intel, there lived a man named Marzinne and his sister Rozennik. They always had enough black bread to eat, and wooden shoes or sabots to wear, and a pig to , so the neighbours thought them quite rich; and what was still better, they thought themselves rich also.
 
Rozennik was a pretty girl, who knew how to make the best of everything, and she could, if she wished, have chosen a husband from the young men of Plouhinec, but she cared for none of them except Bernez, whom she had played with all her life, and Bernez, though he worked hard, was so very very poor that Marzinne told him roughly he must look elsewhere for a wife. But whatever Marzinne might say Rozennik smiled and nodded to him as before, and would often turn her head as she passed, and sing snatches of old songs over her shoulder.
 
Christmas Eve had come, and all the men who worked under Marzinne or on the farms round about were gathered in the large kitchen to eat the soup flavoured with honey followed by rich puddings, to which they were always invited on this particular night. In the middle of the table was a large wooden bowl, with wooden spoons placed in a circle round it, so that each might dip in his turn. The benches were filled, and Marzinne was about to give the signal, when the door was suddenly thrown open, and an old man came in, wishing the guests a good appetite for their supper. There was a pause, and some of the faces looked a little frightened; for the new-comer was well known to them as a beggar, who was also said to be a wizard who cast spells over the cattle, and caused the corn to grow black, and old people to die, of what, nobody knew. Still, it was Christmas Eve, and besides it was as well not to offend him, so the farmer invited him in, and gave him a seat at the table and a wooden spoon like the rest.
 
There was not much talk after the beggar’s entrance, and everyone was glad when the meal came to an end, and the beggar asked if he might sleep in the stable, as he should die of cold if he were left outside. Rather Marzinne gave him leave, and bade Bernez take the key and unlock the door. There was certainly plenty of room for a dozen beggars, for the only occupants of the stable were an old donkey and a thin ox; and as the night was bitter, the wizard lay down between them for warmth, with a sack of reeds for a pillow.
 
He had walked far that day, and even wizards get tired sometimes, so in spite of the hard floor he was just dropping off to sleep, when midnight struck from the church tower of Plouhinec. At this sound the donkey raised her head and shook her ears, and turned towards the ox.
 
‘Well, my dear cousin,’ said she, ‘and how have you fared since last Christmas Eve, when we had a conversation together?’
 
Instead of answering at once, the ox eyed the beggar with a long look of disgust.
 
‘What is the use of talking,’ he replied roughly, ‘when a good-for-nothing creature like that can hear all we say?’
 
‘Oh, you mustn’t lose time in grumbling,’ rejoined the donkey , ‘and don’t you see that the wizard is asleep?’
 
‘His wicked do not make him rich, certainly,’ said the ox, ‘and he isn’t even clever enough to have found out what a piece of luck might befall him a week hence.’
 
‘What piece of luck?’ asked the donkey.
 
‘Why, don’t you know,’ inquired the ox, ‘that once very hundred years the stones on Plouhinec heath go down to drink at the river, and that while they are away the treasures them are uncovered?’
 
‘Ah, I remember now,’ replied the donkey, ‘but the stones return so quickly to their places, that you certainly would be crushed to death unless you have in your hands a bunch of crowsfoot and of five-leaved trefoil.’
 
‘Yes, but that is not enough,’ said the ox; ‘even supposing you get safely by, the treasure you have brought with you will into dust if you do not give in exchange a baptised soul. It is needful that a should die before you can enjoy the wealth of Plouhinec.’
 
The donkey was about to ask some further questions, when she suddenly found herself unable to speak: the time allowed them for conversation was over.
 
‘Ah, my dear creatures,’ thought the beggar, who had of course heard everything, ‘you are going to make me richer than the richest men of Vannes or Lorient. But I have no time to lose; to-morrow I must begin to hunt for the precious plants.’
 
He did not dare to seek too near Plouhinec, lest somebody who knew the story might guess what he was doing, so he went away further towards the south, where the air was softer and the plants are always green. From the instant it was light, till the last rays had faded out of the sky, he searched every inch of ground where the magic plants might grow; he scarcely gave himself a minute to eat and drink, but at length he found the crowsfoot in a little hollow! Well, that was certainly a great deal, but after all, the crowsfoot was of no use without the trefoil, and there was so little time left.
 
He had almost give up hope, when on the very last day before it was necessary that he should start of Plouhinec, he came upon a little of trefoil, half hidden under a rock. Hardly able to breathe from excitement, he sat down and hunted eagerly through the plant which he had torn up. Leaf after leaf he threw aside ............