Twenty years ago Chelsea Green published the first trade edition of The Man Who Planted Trees, a timeless eco-fable about what one person can do to restore the earth. The hero of the story, Elzeard Bouffier, spent his life planting one hundred acorns a day in a desolate, barren section of Provence in the south of France. The result was a total transformation of the landscape-from one devoid of life, with miserable, contentious inhabitants, to one filled with the scent of flowers, the songs of birds, and fresh, flowing water.

Since our first publication, the book has sold over a quarter of a million copies and inspired countless numbers of people around the world to take action and plant trees. On National Arbor Day, April 29, 2005, Chelsea Green released a special twentieth anniversary edition with a new foreword by Wangari Maathai, winner of the 2004 Nobel Peace Prize and founder of the African Green Belt Movement.

'And so, with great care, he planted his hundred acorns' While hiking through the wild lavender in a wind-swept, desolate valley in Provence, a man comes across a solitary shepherd called Elzeard Bouffier. Staying with him, he watches Elzeard sorting and then planting hundreds of acorns as he walks through the wilderness. Ten years later, after surviving the First World War, he visits the shepherd again. A young forest is slowly spreading over the valley - Elzeard has continued his work. Year after year the narrator returns to see the miracle being created: a verdant, green landscape that is testament to one man's creative instinct. miracle he is gradually creating: a verdant, green landscape that is a testament to one man's creative instinct. 'I love the humanity of this story and how one man's efforts can change the future for so many' Michael Morpurgo, Independent VINTAGE EARTH is a series of books that reveals our ever-changing relationship with the environment. These are stories old and young, set in worlds real or imagined, that allow us to explore our connection to the natural world. Transformative, wild, surprising and essential, these novels take on the most urgent story of our times.

The narrator of this allegorical tale, journeying by foot across the barren plains of the lower Alps, has his thirst assuaged by the well water drawn by the shepherd Elzéard Bouffier. Thus begins the subtle parable that Giono weaves of the life-giving shepherd who chooses to live alone and carry out the work of God. Over forty years the desolate hills and lifeless villages which so oppressed the traveller are transformed by the dedication of one man. All with the help of a few acorns. Written in the 1950s, Giono’s brief story, which he hoped would help set in motion a worldwide reforestation programme, had a message ahead of its time. It has inspired many readers over the years to rediscover the harmonies of the countryside and prevent its wilful destruction. This edition is enhanced by Harry Brockway’s delightful engravings and by an afterword by Alyne Giono.

A renowned writer and committed pacifist throughout the 1930s - a conviction that resulted in his imprisonment before and after the Occupation - Jean Giono spent the war in the village of Contadour in Provence, where he wrote, corresponded with other writers, and cared for his consumptive daughter. This journal records his musings on art and literature, his observations of life, his interactions with the machinery of the collaborationist Vichy regime, as well as his forceful political convictions.

BLUE BOY by JEAN GIONO. CHAPTER I. Mof my age here remember the time when he road to Sainte-Tulle was bordered by a erried row of poplars. It is a Lombard cus om to plant poplars along the wayside. This road came, with its procession of trees, from the very heart of Piedmont. It straddled Mont Genevre, it flowed along the Alps, it caine all the way with its burden of long creaking carts and its knots of curly-haired countrymen who strode along with their songs and their hussar pantaloons flutter ing in the breeze. It came this far but no farther. It came with all its trees, its two-wheeled carts, and its Pied monteses, as far as the little hill called Toutes-Aures. Here, it looked back. From this point it saw in the hazy distance the misty peak of the Vaucluse, hot and muddy, steaming like cabbage soup. Here it was assailed by the odors of coarse vegetables, fertile land, and the plain. From here, on fine days, could be seen the still pallor of the whitewashed farmhouses and the slow kneeling of the fat peasants in the rows of vegetables. On windy days, the heavy odors of dung heaps surged in waves along with the broken, bloody bodies of storms from the Rhone. At this point the poplars stopped. The carts rolled noisily into the jaws of the way side inns with their loads of corn flour and black wine. The carters said, Porca wwdona They sneezed like mules that have snuffed up pipe smoke, and they stayed on this side of the hill with the poplars and the carts. The chief inn was called Au Territoire de Piemont. In those days, our country was made up of meadows and fair orchards that used to unfold in a magnificent spring time as soon as the warm weather came up the Durance Valley. They knewhow to recognize the approach of the long days. By what means, no one knows. By some bird cry or by that burst of green flame that lights up the hills on April evenings. They would simply begin to flutter while the frost was still on the grass, and, one fine morning, just when the bluish heat weighed upon the rocky bed of the Durance, the gaily flowered orchards would begin to sing in the warm breeze. That we have all seen from the time we were mere urchins in our black school smocks. I remember my father's workroom. I can never pass by a shoemaker's shop without thinking that my father still exists, somewhere beyond this world, sitting at a spirit table with his blue apron, his shoemaker's knife, his wax-ends, his awls, making shoes of angel leather for some thousand legged god. I was able to recognize strange steps on the stairs. I could hear my mother saying below, It is on the third floor. Go up, you will see the light. And the voice would reply, Grazia, signora And then the sound of the feet. They stumbled on that soapstone step near the top of the first flight. The loose boards in the landing rattled be neath the heavy boots. Their hands pressed against the two walls in the darkness. Here comes one of them, said my father. Putamr That is a Romagnol, said my father. And the man would enter. I remember that my father always gave them the chair near the window, then he would lift his spectacles. He would begin to speak in Italian to the man who sat erect, hands on thighs, all perfumed with wine and new corduroy. Sometimes it took a long time. At others, the smile came almost at once. My father spoke without gestures, or with very slow ones, because he held a shoe in one hand and theawl in the other. He would talk until he saw the smile. It was useless for the other to haul out papers, to tap on his papers with the back of his hand. Porca di Dior Until the smile appeared my father talked on, and some times the other would say in a hushed tone, Che bellezza! Then the man would smile. Moreover, they did not come to my father at once. I do not know by what miracle they came. ...

Text extracted from opening pages of book: BLUE BOY BY JEAN GIONO TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY KATHERINE A. CLARKE NEW YORK THE VIKING PRESS MCMXLVI BLUE BOY CHAPTER I Mof my age here remember the time when he road to Sainte-Tulle was bordered by a erried row of poplars. It is a Lombard cus om to plant poplars along the wayside. This road came, with its procession of trees, from the very heart of Piedmont. It straddled Mont Genevre, it flowed along the Alps, it caine all the way with its burden of long creaking carts and its knots of curly-haired countrymen who strode along with their songs and their hussar pantaloons flutter ing in the breeze. It came this far but no farther. It came with all its trees, its two-wheeled carts, and its Pied monteses, as far as the little hill called Toutes-Aures. Here, it looked back. From this point it saw in the hazy distance the misty peak of the Vaucluse, hot and muddy, steaming like cabbage soup. Here it was assailed by the odors of coarse vegetables, fertile land, and the plain. From here, on fine days, could be seen the still pallor of the whitewashed farmhouses and the slow kneeling of the fat peasants in the rows of vegetables. On windy days, the heavy odors of dung heaps surged in waves along with the broken, bloody 4 Blue Boy bodies of storms from the Rhone. At this point the poplars stopped. The carts rolled noisily into the jaws of the way side inns with their loads of corn flour and black wine. The carters said, Porca wwdona They sneezed like mules that have snuffed up pipe smoke, and they stayed on this side of the hill with the poplars and the carts. The chief inn was called Au Territoire de Piemont. In those days, our country was madeup of meadows and fair orchards that used to unfold in a magnificent spring time as soon as the warm weather came up the Durance Valley. They knew how to recognize the approach of the long days. By what means, no one knows. By some bird cry or by that burst of green flame that lights up the hills on April evenings. They would simply begin to flutter while the frost was still on the grass, and, one fine morning, just when the bluish heat weighed upon the rocky bed of the Durance, the gaily flowered orchards would begin to sing in the warm breeze. That we have all seen from the time we were mere urchins in our black school smocks. I remember my father's workroom. I can never pass by a shoemaker's shop without thinking that my father still exists, somewhere beyond this world, sitting at a spirit table with his blue apron, his shoemaker's knife, his wax-ends, his awls, making shoes of angel leather for some thousand legged god. I was able to recognize strange steps on the stairs. I could hear my mother saying below, It is on the third floor. Go up, you will see the light. Blue Boy 5 And the voice would reply, Grazia, signora And then the sound of the feet. They stumbled on that soapstone step near the top of the first flight. The loose boards in the landing rattled be neath the heavy boots. Their hands pressed against the two walls in the darkness. Here comes one of them, said my father. Putamr That is a Romagnol, said my father. And the man would enter. I remember that my father always gave them the chair near the window, then he would lift his spectacles. He would begin to speak in Italian to the man who sat erect, hands on thighs, all perfumed with wine and new corduroy. Sometimes ittook a long time. At others, the smile came almost at once. My father spoke without gestures, or with very slow ones, because he held a shoe in one hand and the awl in the other. He would talk until he saw the smile. It was useless for the other to haul out papers, to tap on his papers with the back of his hand. Porca di Dior Until the smile appeared my father talked on, and some times the other would say in a hushed tone, Che bellezza! Then the man would smile. Moreover, they did not come to my father at once. I do not know by what miracle they came. It must have bee

A modern, magical novel of adventure in Provence.. Simple and magical, Song of the World is an adventure story for the modern era. In France's Provence region, two men embark on a journey to discover the meaning of life. Through writing which is invigorating and fresh, Giono re-presents man's relationship to nature as the two men experience the wonders of the world.

A sweeping tale of a boyhood in Provence. Although Jean Giono wrote over fifty volumes of fiction, poems, and plays, and attracted such fervent fans as Henry Miller, his work is not as well-known in America as it deserves to be. Blue Boy , which follows Counterpoints reissue of The Joy of Mans Desiring , will bring Giono back into the American spotlight.A fictionalized autobiography of his boyhood in the countryside of Provence, told through the eyes of a child, Blue Boy is written with the mystical style that marks Gionos greatest work. On the surface a simple tale of a village cobbler and his young son, this novel explores a complex interlocking, a cyclic ebb and flow, that sets the stage for the young boys passage from innocence to sensuality.

Perhaps no other of his novels better reveals Giono's perfect balance between lyricism and narrative, description and characterization, the epic and the particular, than The Horseman on the Roof. This novel, which Giono began writing in 1934 and which was published in 1951, expanded and solidified his reputation as one of Europe's most important writers.

This is a novel of adventure, a roman courtois, that tells the story of Angelo, a nobleman who has been forced to leave Italy because of a duel, and is returning to his homeland by way of Provence. But that region is in the grip of a cholera epidemic, travelers are being imprisoned behind barricades, and exposure to the disease is almost certain.

Angelo's escapades, adventures, and heroic self-sacrifice in this hot, hallucinatory landscape, among corpses, criminals and rioting townspeople, share this epic tale.