Page:Mistral - Mirèio. A Provençal poem.djvu/163

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"Erelong the hay-rick at its corners four
Burnt all a-flame. And, father, something more!
They drew a drowned man out of the well."
Then Ambroi, in gruff tones half-audible,
"A little child a little trouble gives,
And more and more for every year he lives."

Therewith put his long spatterdashes on
Which he himself had made in days bygone,
His hobnailed shoes, and long red cap, and so
Straightway set forth upon the road to Crau.
'Twas harvest-time, the eve of St. John's day,
The hedgerow paths were crowded all the way

With troops of dusty, sunburnt mountaineers
Come down to work awhile as harvesters.
In fig-wood quivers were their sickles borne,
Slung to a belt across the shoulder worn.
By twos and twos they came, and every pair
Had its own sheaf-binder. And carts were there,

Bearing the weary elders, and beside
The pipes and tambourines with ribbons tied.
Anon by fields of beardless wheat they passed,
Lashed into billows by the noisy blast;
And "Mon Dieu, but that is noble grain!"
They cried. "What tufts of ears! There shall we gain