Order the events

1 Many years ago, in 1913, a man (the Narrator of the story) went on a walking tour, ran out of water and had to nd some.____ All those people were happy and wanted to live in that village thanks to Elzeard Boufer. It took only one man, one body and one spirit to change a desert into a paradise. ____ Elzeard thought the land was dying because there were no trees and he wanted to change that.____ He came to a place devastated and after walking for five hours he still couldnt find water. ____ He planted the hundred acorns there. For three years he had been planting oak trees in that desert. ____ In 1933 Elzeard received a visit from a forest ranger who told him that it was prohibited to light a fire because he could ruin the "natural" forest. ____ In 1935 a delegation came from the Government to examine the "natural forest and put the forest under the protection of the State.____ In the distance he saw a thin dark shape; it was a shepherd and his thirty sheep.____ One day the following week they went together to see Elzeard and they had lunch together.____ Some years after the war, the Narrator went back to the desert place, thinking that Elzeard was dead; but he wasnt, he had changed jobs and he had bees because the sheep ruin the trees he planted.____ The following day the man went out and he invited the Narrator to go with him if he had nothing better to do.____ The man told the Narrator that he was fifty-ve years old and his name was Elzeard Boufer. He had once had a farm and he had lost his only son and his wife. ____ The Narrator saw how the man made a hole in the earth, planted an acorn; then he relled the hole. He was planting oak trees in a land that was not his. ____ The Narrator saw that the oaks of 1910 were then ten years old and taller than a man. There was water running and green spaces with flowers; everything was full of life thanks to the generosity of one man.____ The Narrator saw who the man took a bag with acorns and selected one hundred perfect acorns.____ The Narrator told a friend, who work for the Government, that Elzeard had planted the natural forest. ____ The next day the Narrator asked the man if he could stay to rest for a day. He was not really tired, he was interested in the strange man.____ The next day, the Narrator went away and the following year, 1914, came the First World War. He was soldier in the war and fought for five years.____ The shepherd took him to his house and gave him soup; he lived in a desert place.____ When the Narrator saw Elzeard for the last time the man was eighty-seven years old. The village was much bigger, there was a bus service, there were new houses and everybody in the village was happy; everything was different.____ When the Second World War came, in 1939, the forest was in danger because the army needed wood for the cars and they started cutting the trees; but the area was far from railroads and transporting the wood was expensive so they didnt cut more trees. 22 Elzeard Boufer died peacefully in 1947.

Many years ago, in 1913, a man (the Narrator of the story) went on a walking tour, ran out of water and had to nd some.

He came to a place devastated and after walking for five hours he still couldnt find water.

In the distance he saw a thin dark shape; it was a shepherd and his thirty sheep.

The shepherd took him to his house and gave him soup; he lived in a desert place.

The Narrator saw how the man took a bag with acorns and selected one hundred perfect acorns.

The next day the Narrator asked the man if he could stay to rest for a day. He was not really tired, he was interested in the strange man.

The following day the man went out and he invited the Narrator to go with him if he had nothing better to do.

The Narrator saw how the man made a hole in the earth, planted an acorn; then he relled the hole. He was planting oak trees in a land that was not his.

He planted the hundred acorns there. For three years he had been planting oak trees in that desert.

The man told the Narrator that he was fifty-ve years old and his name was Elzeard Boufer. He had once had a farm and he had lost his only son and his wife.

Elzeard thought the land was dying because there were no trees and he wanted to change that.

The next day, the Narrator went away and the following year, 1914, came the First World War. He was soldier in the war and fought for five years.

Some years after the war, the Narrator went back to the desert place, thinking that Elzeard was dead; but he wasnt, he had changed jobs and he had bees because the sheep ruin the trees he planted.

The Narrator saw that the oaks of 1910 were then ten years old and taller than a man. There was water running and green spaces with flowers; everything was full of life thanks to the generosity of one man.

In 1933 Elzeard received a visit from a forest ranger who told him that it was prohibited to light a fire because he could ruin the "natural" forest.

In 1935 a delegation came from the Government to examine the "natural forest and put the forest under the protection of the State.

The Narrator told a friend, who worked for the Government, that Elzeard had planted the natural forest.

One day the following week they went together to see Elzeard and they had lunch together.

When the Second World War came, in 1939, the forest was in danger because the army needed wood for the cars and they started cutting the trees; but the area was far from railroads and transporting the wood was expensive so they didnt cut more trees.

When the Narrator saw Elzeard for the last time the man was eighty-seven years old. The village was much bigger, there was a bus service, there were new houses and everybody in the village was happy; everything was different.

All those people were happy and wanted to live in that village thanks to Elzeard Boufer. It took only one man, one body and one spirit to change a desert into a paradise.

Elzeard Boufer died peacefully in 1947.

Goals Help students understand the importance of individual responsibility Encourage students to become caretakers of their environment Increase students awareness and knowledge of treesEssential Questions What is our responsibility to the environment? Why are trees important? What are the components of a tree?

The story begins in the year 1910, when a young man is undertaking a lone hiking trip through Provence, France, and into the Alps, enjoying the relatively unspoiled wilderness.The young man runs out of water in treeless, desolate valley where only wild lavender grows and there is no trace of civilization except old, empty crumbling buildings. He finds only a dried up well, but is saved by a middle-aged shepherd who takes him to a spring he knows of.Curious about the shepherd and why he has chosen such a lonely life, the young man stays with him for a time.The shepherd, after being widowed, has decided to restore the ruined ecosystem of the isolated and largely abandoned valley by single-handedly cultivating a forest, tree by tree. The shepherd, Elzard Bouffier, makes holes in the ground with his curling pole and drops into the holes acorns that he has collected from many miles away.The young man leaves the shepherd and returns home, and later fights in the First World War. In 1920, shell-shocked and depressed after the war, the young man returnsto the valley. He is surprised to see young saplings of all forms taking root in the valley, and new streams running through it where the shepherd has made dams higher up in the mountain. The young man makes a full recovery in the peace and beauty of the regrowing valley, and continues to visit Bouffier every year. Bouffier is no longer a shepherd, because he is worried about the sheep affecting his young trees, and has become a bee keeper instead.Over four decades, Bouffier continues to plant trees, and the valley is turned into a kind of Garden of Eden. By the end of the story, the valley has a vibrant ecosystem and is peacefully settled. The valley receives official protection after the First World War, (the authorities mistakenly believe that the rapid growth of this forest is a bizarre natural phenomenon, as they are unaware of Bouffier's selfless deeds), and more than 10,000 people move there, all of them unknowingly owing their happiness to Bouffier. The young man tells one of his friends in the government the truth about the natural forest, and the friend also helps protect the forest.The man visits the now very old Bouffier one last time in 1945, at the end of World War II. In a hospice in Banon, in 1947, the man who planted trees peacefully passes away

Academy Award-winning animatorFrdric Backadapts acclaimed authorJean Giono's inspirational tale of the difference a single determined person can make in the world when they put their mind and body to the task. A solitary shepherd selflessly determines to transform his barren surroundings into a thriving oasis against all odds and for the betterment of future generations. As each day passes and the tireless shepherd sows his seeds and acorns across the land, his sparse surroundings are eventually transformed into a lush and thriving forest. With the beauty of the newly green landscape offering a calming contrast to the two world wars that raged through the years, the shepherd's remarkable feat offers a look at both the awe inspiring power of nature and the shining hope that can emerge from the most unlikely of places. ~

What's the story?InThe Man Who Planted Trees(narrated byChristopher Plummer) a young man on a walking journey through the Alps comes to a desolate land of sparse nature. Out of water, he meets a shepherd named Elezard Bouffiet who gives him his water. The young man stays with this shepherd for dinner, and observes how he quietly sorts acorns. He saves the good acorns, and the next day, the young man follows the shepherd as he plants acorns throughout the desolate land. The man has planted 100,000 oak trees, but expects fewer than 10,000 to actually grow in this harsh climate.As Bouffiet continues planting trees, the young man fights in the first World War. He returns to the land Bouffiet has tended, and finds trees starting to grow. The narrator is inspired by Bouffiet's quiet humility and unwavering determination. He visits Bouffiet each year and marvels at the changes in the land Bouffiet's trees have brought to a once desolate land where only very mean villagers lived hardscrabble lives, and how decades later, this land has been transformed into a rustic paradise.Is it any good?This collection of nine short animated films -- including the Oscar-winningThe Man Who Planted Trees, and the Oscar-nominatedThe Mighty River--is a celebration of the ethereal and exquisitely impressionistic work of animator Frederic Back.The title story, based on a story by French author Jean Giono, is a masterpiece of storytelling and animation, and similar themes of man's relationship to the land in which he lives is explored in the other films. Beautifully rendered, dreamlike and allegorical,The Man Who Planted Treesis a story for the ages.Explore, discuss, enjoy Families can talk about the messages in these films. What do you think the filmmaker is trying to express? Did any of the films inspire you? What are some examples, from history or from personally observed moments in your life, of when you've seen one person create positive changes in a community? Do we have an obligation to do things for the greater good?

For the character of a human to reveal truly exceptional qualities, one needs to have the good fortune of being able to observe his actions over many years. If his actions are free of all egotism, if his guiding principle is unequalled generosity, if it is absolutely certain that no reward was sought anywhere and his ideas have left a visible impression on the world; one has, without any doubt, found an unforgettable character.About fourty years ago, I went on a long hike, in heights unknown to tourists, in these ancient regions of theAlpswhich extend toProvence.This region is bordered to the south and south-east by the central course ofthe Durance, between Sisteron and Mirabeau; to the north by the upper course ofthe Drme, from its source untilDie; in the west by the plains ofComtat Venaissinand the foothills ofMont Ventoux. It encompasses the whole northern part of thedepartmentofBasses Alpes, the southern part of the department ofDrme, and a smallenclaveof the department ofVaucluse.At the time, when I undertook my long stroll through this desert, at 1200 to 1300 meters above sea level, it was a barren and monotonous area. Nothing but wildlavendergrew there.I crossed this country along its largest extent and, after three days, I found myself in a most desolate spot. I camped besides the remains of an abandoned village. I had exhausted my water supply the day before and desperately needed to find a source. These buildings, even if they were just ruins, agglomerated like an old wasps' nest, made me think that there must have been once a well or a spring. Indeed there was a well, but all dried out. The five or six houses, without roofs, eroded by wind and rain, the old chapel caved in, were neat and tidy like houses and chapels in inhabited villages, but all life had disappeared.It was a beautiful and sunny day in June, but on these high plains without shelter, a brutal wind blew unbearably. As it soughed through the carcasses of these old houses, it roared like a wild animal disturbed while feeding.I had to break my camp and move on. After five hours, I still had found no trace of water, and I despaired to find any. Everywhere the same dryness, the same woody herbs. In the distance, I thought I saw a small black silhouette, upright, which I took for the trunk of a lone tree. More by chance than by determination, I continued my way in its direction. It was a shepherd. About thirty sheep rested close to him on the hot ground.He let me drink from his water bottle, and then guided me to his cabin, hidden behind a low mound on the plain. He got hisexcellentwater from a deep natural hole, above which he had installed a rudimentary winch.This man barely talked. Such is the way of loners, but one felt that he was sure of himself and confident of his self-assessment. It was strange in this country stripped of everything. He did not live in a shack but in a true house made of stone, and one could see easily where and how he had restored the ruin he must have found there when he had first arrived there. The roof was solid and tight. The wind blowing across the tiles made the sound of waves washing ashore.He kept a proper household, his dishes were done, the floor was swept clean, his gun well greased, his soup boiling over the fire. I also noticed that he was freshly shaved, his buttons carefully sewed on, and his clothing had been darned with the great care that renders the repairs nearly invisible.He shared his soup with me, and when I offered him my tobacco pouch, he said he didn't smoke. His dog, quiet like the man himself, was friendly and without baseness.It had been silently understood right away that I would spend the night there; the next village was still a day's march and a half away. Furthermore, I knew the character of these villages perfectly well. There are four or five, spread apart on the slopes of this high plain amidst thickets ofwhite oak, at the very end of the navigable roads. They are inhabited by charburners makingcharcoal. These are bad places to live. Living close to one another in this rough climate, Summer and Winter alike, the families being cramped together in close quarters increases their selfishness and leads to excessive unreflected ambition in their constant desire to escape these places.The men bring the coal to the city in their trucks and then return. Even the best qualities are eroded by this perpetual contrast bath. The women are embittered, always bearing a grudge. These people compete about anything, from the coal sale to the place on the church bank, about the virtues of the women and the vices of the men, and about the general fray of the vices and the virtues, without rest. On top of that, the equally incessant wind strains the nerves. Suicide is epidemic, and there are many cases of madness, nearly always deadly.The shepherd, who did not smoke, fetched a small bag from which he poured a pile of acorns onto the table. He began examining them closely one after the other, separating the good ones from the bad ones. I smoked my pipe. I offered to help. He told me this was his business. And indeed, seeing with how much care he performed the job, I did not insist. That was our whole conversation. Once he had separated enough of the good acorns, he counted them in packets of ten, eliminating in the process the smaller ones or those that were slightly chapped, for he truly scrutinized them. Once he had lying one hundred perfect acorns in front of him, he stopped and we went to bed.The company of this man instilled peace. I asked him the next morning whether I might stay and relax the whole day there at his place. He found it completely normal, or, more exactly, he gave me the impression that nothing could disturb him. I didn't really need the rest, but I had become curious and wanted to know more. He collected his flock of sheep and led them to their pastures. Before leaving, he dunked the small bag in which he had collected the carefully chosen and counted acorns into a bucket of water.I noticed that instead of a stick he carried an iron rod, thick like a thumb and about a meter and a half long. I just leisurely walked along, on a path parallel to his. The pasture of his animals was in a small depression. He left his dog in charge of the flock and climbed back up to me. I feared he would reproach me for my intrusion, but not at all: it was his usual route and he invited me to accompany him if I had nothing better to do. He walked for about two hundred meters.When he had arrived where he had wanted to go, he planted his iron rod into the ground. In the hole he put an acorn, which he then covered again. He was planting oaks. I asked him if this land was his property. He answered in the negative. Did he know whose land it was? He didn't know. He assumed it was common property, or maybe it belonged to someone who didn't care about it. He didn't worry about knowing the landowners. In this way, he planted extremely carefully one hundred acorns.After we had eaten at noon, he began again to sort his seeds. I must have asked insistingly enough, for he answered my questions. For three years he had been planting trees in this solitude, more than one hundred thousand acorns. Of these one hundred thousand, twenty thousand had grown. He expected to lose half of these twenty thousand, due to rodents or simply the unpredictables in the nature of destiny. Remained ten thousand oaks that would grow in this place where there had been nothing before.At that point, I suddenly wondered how old this man was. He was visibly older than fifty years. Fifty-five, he told me. His name was Elzard Bouffier. He once had owned a farm in the valley. He had accomplished his life. He had lost his only son, then his wife. He had retreated to this lonely place, where he was content and happy to live a slow life, with his sheep and his dog. He had come to the conclusion that this country was dying for want of trees. He added that, since he had no more important business, he had decided to remedy this situation.As I was at that time, despite my youth, leading a solitary life, I knew that the heart of a recluse had to be touched delicately. Nevertheless, I made a mistake. Precisely because of my young age, I could not help but imagine the future according to myself and a certain search for happiness. I told him that in thirty years, these ten thousand oaks would be magnificent. He answered simply that, if God lent him life, in thirty years, he would have planted so many others that these ten thousand would be like a drop of water in the sea.Moreover, he was already experimenting with the reproduction ofbeeches, and he had behind his house a seedbed with trees grown from beech-nuts. Protected from his sheep by a fence made of wire netting, they were splendid. He was also thinking aboutbirchesfor the depressions where, so he told me, there was moisture only a few meters below the surface.We parted the following day.The next year, thewar of 14broke out, in which I served for five years. Aninfantrymanhad no time to think about trees. To tell the truth, the encounter had not lasted with me: it had been no more than a hobby-horse, like a stamp collection, and I had forgotten it.Discharged after the war, I found myself with only a small demobilization premium, but with a big desire to breathe a little pure air. Without an exact planexcept this oneI retraced my steps through this barren region.The country had not changed. But still, beyond the dead village, I saw in the distance a kind of grey fog covering the heights like a carpet. Since the last evening, I had been thinking again about this shepherd tree planter. "Ten thousand oaks," I said to myself, "occupy a really large space."I had seen too many people die in the last five years not to imagine easily the death of Elzar Bouffier, even more so because at twenty, one considers anyone of fifty years to be an old man with nothing left but death. He had not died. He was even extremely spry. He had switched trade. He only had four sheep, but, on the other hand, a hundred bee hives. He had gotten rid of the sheep which put in danger his tree plantations. Because, he told me (and I realized it), he had not worried at all about the war. He had continued imperturbably to plant.The oaks from 1910 were then ten years old and taller than me or him. The sight was awe-inspiring. I was literally at a loss of words, and, as he did not talk either, we spent the whole day walking in silence though his forest. It was, in three sections, eleven kilometers long and up to three kilometers wide. Remembering that all this had come from the hands and the soul of this manwithout technical supportone understood that man could be as effective as God, not only in the field of destruction.He had followed his plan, as witnessed by the beeches, which reached my shoulders, spread as far as one could see. The oaks were thick and had grown beyond the stage where they were at the mercy of rodents; and regarding the nature of destiny itself, it would have to usecyclonesto destroy this work. He showed me admirable thickets of birches going back to five years, i.e., of 1915, of the time when I fought atVerdun. He had planted them in the depressions where he suspected, with good reason, that water was available just beneath the ground. They were tender like youths and very determined.The creation seemed furthermore to cause some secondary effects. He didn't worry about it, he just very simply obstinately continued his task. But when I descended to the village, I saw water flowing in brooks that, within living memory, had always been dry. It was the most impressive chain reaction that I have ever had the opportunity to see. These brooks had formerly, in ancient times, already carried water. Some of the miserable villages I have mentioned above had been built on the sites of oldgallo-romansettlements of which there were still traces and in which archaeologists had excavated. They had found fish hooks in places where in the twentieth century, one needed to buildcisternsto have a little water.The wind also disseminated some seeds. With the return of the water, willows, osiers, grasses, meadows, gardens, flowers and a reason for living came back.But the transformation proceeded so slowly that it was accepted without astonishment in the daily life. The hunters who climbed the heights in pursuit ofharesorwild boarshad well noticed the proliferation of the small trees, but they had attributed it to the freaks of nature. Therefore, nobody disturbed the work of this man. If they had suspected it was his doing, they would have interfered. He was above suspicion. Who could have imagined, in the villages and in the administrations, such perseverance in the most splendid generosity?From 1920 on, I visited Elzard Bouffier each year. I never saw him feel down or doubting. And still, only God knows if God himself pushed him! I did not take the account of his vexations. But one can easily image that for such a success, it was necessary to overcome adversity; that to ensure the victory of such a passion, despair had to be fought. In one year, he had planted more than ten thousandmapletrees. They all died. The next year, he abandoned the maples and returned to the beeches, which grew even better than the oaks.To get a better idea of this exceptional character, one must not forget that he performed his feat in total solitude, so total that, towards the end of his life, he lost the habit to speak. Or perhaps he considered it unnecessary?In 1933, a dumbfounded forest ranger came to visit him. This functionary served him an order not to make fire outside to not endanger the growth of this natural forest. This was the first time, said this naive man, that a forest was observed to grow all alone. At that time, he used to plant beeches twelve kilometers away from his house. To avoid having to return each eveningfor he was seventy-five years oldhe contemplated building a small stone cabin at the place where he was planting then. He did so the next year.In 1935, a true administrative delegation came to examine the "natural forest". There was a big shot from theNational Forestry Commission, an elected representative, technicians. Lots of useless words were spoken. It was decided to do something, and luckily, nothing was done except the only useful measure: the forest was placed under the protection of the state and it was prohibited to go make charcoal there. It was impossible not to be subjugated by the beauty of these young healthy trees. The forest exerted its seductive power even on the representative himself.I had a friend among the forestry managers, who was a member of this delegation. I explained the mystery to him. One day the next week, we both went to visit Elzard Bouffier. We found him at his work, twenty kilometers away from the place of the inspection.This forestry manager was not my friend for nothing. He knew about the value of things. He knew when to remain quiet. I offered some eggs I had brought as a present. We shared our snack amongst us three and passed several hours in silent contemplation of the landscape.The area we had come from was covered by trees between six to seven meters tall. I remembered how this area had looked in 1913: a desert... The peaceful and regular work, the fresh mountain air, his simple life and most of all the serenity of his soul had given this old man an almost solemn health. He was an athlete of God. I wondered how manyhectaresmore he would cover with trees.Before we left, my friend made only a brief suggestion concerning certain trees for which this ground might provide a healthy habitat. He didn't insist. "For the simple reason," he told me afterwards, "that this man knows more about it than I." After another hour of walkinghaving mulled over the ideahe added: "He knows more about it than the whole world. He has found a great way of being happy!"Thanks to this manager, not only the forest, but also the happiness of this man were henceforth protected. He appointed three foresters to enforce the protection and terrorized them such that they remained insensitive to all bribery attempts of any loggers.The work was endangered seriously only during thewar of 1939. The cars then ran on gas generators fueled by charcoal or wood, and there was never enough wood. They began logging the oaks of 1910, but the region is so far away from all traffic lines that the enterprise was a huge financial failure. It was abandoned. The shepherd never saw anything of it. He was thirty kilometers further away, peacefully continuing his task, ignoring the war of 39 as he had ignored the war of 14.I saw Elzard Bouffier for the last time in June 1945. He was then eighty-seven years old. I had returned to the desert, but now, despite the dilapidated state in which the war had left the country, there was a bus service between the valley of the Durance and the mountains. To this relatively fast means of transport I attributed my not recognizing anymore the country of my earlier strolls. It also seemed to to me that the route made me pass by new places. Only by the name of a village could I assert that I was right in that same formerly sorry and ruined region. I got off the bus atVergons.In 1913, this hamlet of ten to twelve houses had three inhabitants. They were savage, detested each other, and lived from trapping: they lived in about the physical and moral state of prehistoric men. Nettles devoured the abandoned houses around them. They were in a hopeless condition. They could only wait for death: a situation that hardly predisposes one to virtue.All had changed. Even the air itself. Instead of the dry and brutal gusts of wind which had greeted me formerly, a soft breeze charged with aromatic odors blew. A sound similar to that of water came from the heights: it was that of the wind in the forests. Finally and most astonishingly I heard the true sound of water plashing in a basin. I saw that there was indeed a fountain, that it was abundant, and, which touched me most, that someone had planted alime treenext to it, which might already have been four years old, already thick; an undeniable symbol of resurrection.Elsewhere, Vergons showed the traces of maintenance work for which hope was a necessity. Hope had thus returned. One had cleared the ruins, had cut down the dilapidated sections of wall and had rebuilt five houses. The hamlet now counted twenty-eight inhabitants, including four young families. The new buildings, freshly plastered inroughcast, were surrounded by kitchen gardens where there grew, mixed but neatly aligned, vegetables and flowers, cabbage and roses,leekandsnapdragons,celeryandanemones. It had become a inviting place where one would have liked to live.From there on, I made my way by foot. The war having just ended, life had not yet fully recovered, butLazarushad risen from the grave. On the lower flanks of the mountains, I saw small fields of barley and of rye; at the bottom of the narrow valleys there were green pastures.In no more than the eight years that have passed since then the whole region became resplendent with health and prosperity. In place of the ruins I had seen in 1913, there are now neat farms, well plastered, suggesting a happy and comfortable life. The old sources, fed by the rain and the snow held back by the forests, are running again. Their water is caught and channeled. Besides each farm, in groves of maple, the fountains overflow onto carpets of fresh mint. The villages have been rebuilt piece by piece. New people have come from the plains, where real estate is expensive, and have settled in the region, bringing youth, movement, and the spirit of adventure with them. In the streets, one meets well-fed men and women, boys and girls who can laugh and who have rediscovered a taste for country festivals. Including the old inhabitants, unrecognizable since they live gently with the new arrivals, more than ten thousand people owe their happiness to Elzard Bouffier.When I think that one single man, reduced to his own simple physical and spiritual resources, was sufficient to turn this desert into this land ofCanaan, I consider the human condition admirable after all. But when I account for all the unwavering nobility of the soul and the determined generosity necessary to achieve this result, I feel a deep respect for this old peasant without culture who managed to conclude this work worthy of God.Elzard Bouffier died peacefully in 1947 at the nursing home ofBanon.

The Man Who Planted TreesFor a human character to reveal truly exceptional qualities, one must have thegood fortune to be able to observe its performance over many years. If thisperformance is devoid of all egoism, if its guiding motive is unparalleled generosity, if it is absolutely certain that there is no thought of recompense andthat, in addition, it has left its visible mark upon the earth, then there can be nomistake.Many years ago I set out on a walking tour over mountain heightsquite unknown to tourists, in that ancient region where the Alps thrust downinto Provence. All this, at the time I embarked upon my long walk throughthese deserted regions, was barren and colorless land. Nothing grew there butwild lavender.I was crossing the area at its widest point, and after three days walking, foundmyself in the midst of unparalleled desolation. I camped near the vestiges of anabandoned village. I had run out of water the day before, and had to nd some.These clustered houses, although in ruins, like an old wasps nest, suggestedthat there must once have been a spring or well here. There was indeed a fountain ,but it was dry. The ve or six houses, rooess, gnawed by wind and rain, thetiny chapel with its crumbling steeple, stood about like the houses and chapelsin living villages, but all life had vanished.It was a sunny June day, brilliant with sunlight, but over this unsheltered landhigh in the sky, the wind blew with unendurable ferocity. It growled over thecarcasses of the houses like a lion disturbed at its meal. I had to move my camp.After ve hours walking I still had found no water and there was nothing togive me any hope of nding any. All about me was the same dryness, the samecoarse grasses. I thought I glimpsed in the distance a thin dark shape,upright, and took it for the trunk of a solitary tree. In any case I started towardit. It was a shepherd. Thirty sheep were lying about him on the baking earth.He gave me a drink from his water gourd and, a little later, took me to hiscottage in a fold of the plain. He drew his waterexcellent waterfrom a verydeep natural well above which he had constructed a primitive winch.The man spoke little. This is the way of those who live alone, but one felt thathe was sure of himself, and condent in his assurance. That was unexpected inthis barren land . He lived, not in a cabin, but in a real house, stone house that bore plain evidence of how his own efforts had reclaimed the ruin he hadfound there on his arrival. His roof was strong and sound. The wind on its tilesmade the sound of the sea upon its shore.The place was in order, the dishes washed, the oor swept, his rie oiled; hissoup was boiling over the re. I noticed then that he was cleanly shaved, thatall his buttons were rmly sewed on, that his clothing had been mended withthe meticulous care that makes the mending invisible.He shared his soup with me and afterwards, when I offered my tobacco pouch,he told me that he did not smoke. His dog, as silent as himself, was friendlywithout being servile.It was understood from the rst that I should spend the night there; the nearestvillage was still more than a day and a half away. And besides I was perfectlyfamiliar with the nature of the rare villages in that region.There were four or ve of them scattered well apart from each other on thesemountain slopes, among white oak thickets, at the extreme end of the wagonroads. They were inhabited by charcoal-burners, and the living was bad. Families, crowded together in a climate that is excessively harsh both in winterand in summer, found no escape from the unceasing conict of personalities.Irrational ambition reached inordinate proportions in the continual desire forescape.The men took their wagonloads of charcoal to the town, then returned. Thesoundest characters broke under the perpetual grind. The women nursed theirgrievances. There was rivalry in everything, over the price of charcoal as over apew in the church, over warring virtues as over warring vices as well as over theceaseless combat between virtues and vice. And over all there was the wind,also ceaseless, to rasp upon the nerves. There were epidemics of suicide andfrequent cases of insanity, usually homicidal.The shepherd went to fetch a small sack and emptied a pile of acorns onthe table. He began to inspect them, one by one, with great concentration, separating the good from the bad. I smoked my pipe. I did offer to help him. Hetold me that it was his job. And in fact, seeing the care he devoted to the task, Idid not insist. That was the whole of our conversation. When he had set asidea large enough pile of good acorns he counted them out by tens, meanwhileeliminating the small ones or those which were slightly cracked, for now heexamined them more closely. When he had thus selected one hundred perfectacorns he stopped and we went to bed.There was peace in being with this man. The next day I asked if I might resthere for a day. He found it quite naturalor, to be more exact, he gave me theimpression that nothing could startle him. My rest was not absolutely necessary, but I was interested and wished to know more about him. He opened thepen and led his ock to pasture. Before leaving, he plunged his sack of carefullyselected and counted acorns into a pail of water.I noticed that he carried for a stick an iron rod as thick as my thumb and abouta yard and a half long. Resting myself by walking, I followed him a path parallel tohis. His pasture was in a valley. He left the dog in charge of the little ock andclimbed toward where I stood. I was afraid that he was about to rebuke me formy indiscretion, but it was not that at all: this was the way he was going, andhe invited me to go along if I had nothing better to do. He climbed to the top ofthe ridge, about a hundred yards away.There he made a hole in the earth, planted an acorn; then he relled the hole. He was planting oak trees. I asked him if the land belonged to him. He answered no. Did he know whose it was?He did not. He supposed it was community property, or perhaps belonged topeople who cared nothing about it. He was not interested in nding out whoseit was. He planted his hundred acorns with the greatest care.After the midday meal he resumed his planting. I suppose I must have been fairly insistent in my questioning, for he answered me. For three years hehad been planting trees in that desert. He had planted one hundred thousand. Of the hundred thousand, twenty thousand had come out. Of the twentythousand he still expected to lose about half, to rodents or to the unpredictabledesigns of Providence. There remained ten thousand oak trees to grow wherenothing had grown before.That was when I began to wonder about the age of this man. He was obviouslyover fty. Fifty-ve, he told me. His name was Elzeard Boufer. He had oncehad a farm in the lowlands. There he had had his life. He had lost his only son,then his wife. He had withdrawn into this solitude where his pleasure was tolive leisurely with his lambs and his dog. It was his opinion that this land wasdying for lack of trees. He added that, having no very pressing business of hisown, he had resolved to remedy this state of affairs.Since I was at that time, in spite of my youth, leading a solitary life, I understood how to deal gently with solitary spirits. But my very youth forced me toconsider the future in relation to myself and to a certain quest for happiness. Itold him that in thirty years his ten thousand oaks would be magnicent. Heanswered quite simply that if God granted him life, in thirty years he wouldhave planted so many more that these ten thousand would be like a drop ofwater in the sea.Besides, he was now studying the reproduction of beech trees and had a nurseryof seedlings grown from beechnuts near his cottage. The seedlings, which hehad protected from his sheep with a wire fence, were very beautiful. He wasalso considering birches for the valleys where, he told me, there was a certainamount of moisture a few yards below the surface of the soil.The next day, we parted.The following year came the War of 1914, in which I was involved for the nextve years. An infantryman hardly had time for reecting upon trees. To tell thetruth, the thing itself had made no impression upon me; I had considered it asa hobby, a stamp collection, and forgotten it.The war over, I found myself possessed of a tiny demobilization bonus and ahuge desire to breathe fresh air for a while. It was with no other objective that Iagain took the road to the barren lands.The countryside had not changed. However, beyond the deserted village Iglimpsed in the distance a sort of greyish mist that covered the mountaintopslike a carpet. Since the day before, I had begun to think again of the shepherdtree-planter. "Ten thousand oaks,"I reected, "really take up quite a bit of space.I had seen too many men die during those ve years not to imagine easily thatElzeard Boufer was dead, especially since, at twenty, one regards men of ftyas old men with nothing left to do but die. He was not dead. As a matter offact, he was extremely spry.He had changed jobs. Now he had only four sheep but, instead, a hundredbeehives. He had got rid of the sheep because they threatened his young trees.For, he told me (and I saw for myself), the war had disturbed him not at all. Hehad imperturbably continued to plant.The oaks of 1910 were then ten years old and taller than either of us. It wasan impressive spectacle. I was literally speechless and, as he did not talk, wespent the whole day walking in silence through his forest. In three sections, itmeasured eleven kilometers in length and three kilometers at its greatest width.When you remembered that all this had sprung from the hands and the soul ofthis one man, without technical resources, you understood that humans couldbe as effectual as God in other realms than that of destruction.He had pursued his plan, and beech trees as high as my shoulder, spreading outas far as the eye could reach, conrmed it. He showed me handsome clumpsof birch planted ve years beforethat is, in 1915, when I had been ghtingat Verdun. He had set them out in all the valleys where he had guessedandrightlythat there was moisture almost at the surface of the ground. They wereas delicate as young girls, and very well established.Creation seemed to come about in a sort of chain reaction. He did not worryabout it, he was determinedly pursuing his task in all its simplicity; but as wewent back toward the village I saw water owing in brooks that had been drysince human memory. This was the most impressive result of the chain reactionthat I had seen. These dry streams had once, long ago, run with water.Some of the dreary villages I mentioned before had been built on the sites ofancient Roman settlements, traces of which still remained; and archaeologists,exploring there, had found shhooks where, in the twentieth century, cisternswere needed to assure a small supply of water.The wind, too, scattered seeds. As the water reappeared, so there reappearedwillows, rushes, meadows, gardens, owers, and a certain purpose in beingalive. But the transformation took place so gradually that it became part of thepattern without causing any astonishment. Hunters, climbing into the wilderness in pursuit of hares or wild boar, had of course noticed the sudden growthof little trees, but had attributed it to some natural caprice of the earth. Thatis why no one meddled with Elzeard Boufers work. If he had been detectedhe would have had opposition. He was indetectable. Who in the villages or inthe administration could have dreamed of such constant, magnicentgenerosity?To have anything like a precise idea of this exceptional character one must notforget that he worked in total solitude: so total that, toward the end of his life,he lost the habit of speech. Or perhaps it was that he saw no need for it.In 1933 he received a visit from a forest ranger who notied him of an orderagainst lighting res out of doors for fear of endangering the growth of this"natural"forest. It was the rst time the man told him naively, that he had everheard of a forest growing of its own accord. At that time Boufer was aboutto plant beeches at a spot some twelve kilometers from his cottage. In orderto avoid traveling back and forthfor he was then seventy-vehe planned tobuild a stone cabin right at the plantation. The next year he did so.In 1935 a whole delegation came from the Government to examine the "naturalforest."There was a high ofcial from the Forest Service, a deputy, technicians.There was a great deal of ineffectual talk. It was decided that something mustbe done and, fortunately, nothing was done except the only helpful thing: thewhole forest was placed under the protection of the State and charcoal burningprohibited. For it was impossible not to be captivated by the beauty of thoseyoung trees in the fullness of health, and they cast their spell over the deputy himself.A friend of mine was among the forestry ofcers of the delegation. To him Iexplained the mystery. One day the following week we went together to seeElzeard Boufer. We found him hard at work, some ten kilometers from thespot where the inspection had taken place.This forester was not my friend for nothing. He was aware of values. He knewhow to keep silent. I delivered the eggs I had brought as a present. We sharedour lunch among the three of us and spent several hours in wordless contemplation of the countryside.In the direction from which we had come the slopes were covered with treestwenty to twenty-ve feet tall. I remembered how the land had looked in 1913:a desert.... Peaceful, regular toil, the vigorous mountain air, frugality and, aboveall, serenity of spirit had endowed this old man with awe-inspiring health. Hewas one of Gods athletes. I wondered how many more acres he was going tocover with trees.Before leaving, my friend simply made a brief suggestion about certain speciesof trees that the soil here seemed particularly suited for. He did not force thepoint. "For the very good reason,"he told me later, "that Boufer knows moreabout it than I do."At the end of an hours walkinghaving turned it over in hismindhe added, "He knows a lot more about it than anybody. Hes discovereda wonderful way to be happy!"It was thanks to this ofcer that not only the forest but also the happiness ofthe man was protected. He delegated three rangers to the task, and so terrorized them that they remained proof against all the bottles of wine the charcoalburners could offer.The only serious danger to the work occurred during the war the Second Wrold War of 1939. Ascars were being run on wood-burning generators, there was never enough wood. Cutting was started among the oaks of 1910, but the area was so far from any railroads that the enterprise turned out to be nanciallyunsound. It was abandoned. The shepherd had seen nothing of it. He wasthirty kilometers away, peacefully continuing his work, ignoring the war of 39as he had ignored that of 14.I saw Elzeard Boufer for the last time in June of 1945. He was then eightyseven. I had started back along the route through the wastelands; but now,in spite of the disorder in which the war had left the country, there was a busrunning between the Durance Valley and the mountain. I attributed the factthat I no longer recognized the scenes of my earlier journeys to this relativelyspeedy transportation. It seemed to me, too, that the route took me throughnew territory. It took the name of a village to convince me that I was actually inthat region that had been all ruins and desolation.The bus put me down at Vergons. In 1913 this hamlet of ten or twelve houseshad three inhabitants. They had been savage creatures, hating one another,living by trapping game, little removed, both physically and morally, from theconditions of prehistoric humanity. All about them nettles were feeding uponthe remains of abandoned houses. Their condition had been beyond hope. Forthem, nothing but to await deatha situation which rarely predisposes to virtue.Everything was different. Even the air. Instead of the harsh dry winds thatused to attack me, a gentle breeze was blowing, laden with scents. A sound likewater came from the mountains: it was the wind in the forest. Most amazing ofall, I heard the actual sound of water falling into a pool. I saw that a fountainhad been built, that it owed freely andwhat touched me most-that someonehad planted a linden beside it, a linden that must have been four years old,already in full leaf, the incontestable symbol of resurrection.Besides, Vergons bore evidence of labor at the sort of undertaking for whichhope is required. Hope, then, had returned. Ruins had been cleared away,dilapidated walls torn down and ve houses restored. Now there were twentyeight inhabitants, four of them young married couples. The new houses, freshlyplastered, were surrounded by gardens where vegetables and owers grew inorderly confusion, cabbages and roses, leeks and snapdragons, celery and anemones. It was now a village where one would like to live.From that point on I went on foot. The war just nished had not yet allowedthe full blooming of life, but Lazarus was out of the tomb. On the lower slopesof the mountain I saw little elds of barley and rye; deep in the narrow valleysthe meadows were turning green.It has taken only the eight years since then for the whole countryside to glowwith health and prosperity. On the site of ruins I had seen in 1913 now standneat farms, cleanly plastered, testifying to a happy and comfortable life. The oldstreams, fed by the rains and snows that the forest conserves, are owing again.Their waters have been channeled. On each farm, in groves of maples, fountainpools overow onto carpets of fresh mint. Little by little the villages have beenrebuilt. People from the plains, where land is costly, have settled here, bringingyouth, motion, the spirit of adventure. Along the roads you meet hearty menand women, boys and girls who understand laughter and have recovered ataste for picnics. Counting the former population, unrecognizable now thatthey live in comfort, more than ten thousand people owe their happiness toElzeard Boufer.When I think that one man, one body and one spirit was moral resources, was enough to turn a desert a land of Canaan to spring from the wasteland, Iam convinced that in spite of everything, humanity is admirable. But when Icompute the unfailing greatness of spirit and the tenacity of benevolence thatit must have taken to achieve this result, I am taken with an immense respectfor that old and unlearned peasant who was able to complete a work worthy ofGod.Elzeard Boufer died peacefully in 1947 at the hospice in Banon.