Галт хорхойн шөнө

Last summer I was at my grandfather's house in the forest. The house was old and small, but it was warm.

There was a big fireplace in the room. Every evening Grandad was there with his firewood and his old radio.

One night we made a campfire outside. The firelight was orange on the trees. The air was cold, but we weren't cold.

"Were you afraid of the forest when you were a boy?" I asked.

"No, I wasn't," he said. "The forest was my friend."

Then we saw them. Hundreds of small lights over the grass. They were fireflies.

"They are the forest's fireworks," Grandad said.

Later the wind was strong. Burning wood jumped from our campfire into the dry grass. In one minute there was a small wildfire.

The fire was small, but Grandad was fast. A fireman was there in ten minutes. I knew him: he looked at my photograph in the town.

Now the grass is green again. But every summer, when the fireflies are back, I remember the firelight and the fireman.