In summer it gives the bright green shadow of a parasol.

Beside the tree a tall crucifix dwells in the Place forever.
The Place is swarming and undulating.

Peasants from the surrounding country, in their plain cotton caps, are waiting in the old corner of the Rue Neuve, heaped together like eggs.

These people are loaded with provisions.

At the farther end, square-paved, one picks out swarthy outlines of the Epinal type, and faces as brightly colored as apples.
Groups of children flutter and chirrup; little girls with their dolls play at being mothers, and little boys play at brigands.