Page:Mistral - Mirèio. A Provençal poem.djvu/61

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"Oh, sweet! The little eyes in each blue head
Are sharp as needles," as Mirèio said
Softly, three more of the wee brood she pressed
Into their smooth, white prison with the rest,
Who, when bestowed within that refuge warm,
Thought they were in their nest and safe from harm.

"Are there more, Vincen?"—"Ay!" he answered her.
"Then, Holy Virgin! you're a sorcerer!"
"Thou simple maid! About St. George's day,
Ten, twelve, and fourteen eggs, these tomtits lay,
Ay, often. Now let these the others follow!
They are the last: so good-by, pretty hollow!"

But ere the words were spoken, and the maid
In her flowered neckerchief had fairly laid
Her little charge, she gave a piercing wail:
"Oh me! oh me!" then murmured, and turned pale;
And, laying both her hands upon her breast,
Moaned, "I am dying!" and was sore distressed,

And could but weep: "Ah, they are scratching me!
They sting! Come quickly, Vincen, up the tree!"
For on the last arrival had ensued
Wondrous commotion in the hidden brood;
The fledglings latest taken from the nest
Had sore disorder wrought among the rest.