Broke in the happy girl, unthinkingly, “Ah! but your mother, Vincen, where is she?” “Mother is dead.” The two were still awhile: Then he, “But Vinceneto could beguile The time when she was there. A little thing, But she could keep the hut.”--“I’m wondering-- “You have a sister, Vincen?”--“That have I! A merry lass and good,” was the reply: “For down at Font-dou-Rèi, in Beaucaire, Whither she went to glean, she was so fair And deft at work that all were smitten by her; And there she stays as servant by desire.” “And you are like her?”--“Now that makes me merry. Why, she is blonde, and I brown as a berry! But wouldst thou know whom she is like, the elf? Why, even like thee, Mirèio, thine own self! Your two bright heads, with all their wealth of hair Like myrtle-leaves, would make a perfect pair. “But, ah! thou knowest better far to gather The muslin of thy cap than doth the other! My little sister is not plain nor dull, But thou,--thou art so much more beautiful!” “Oh, what a Vincen!” cried Mirèio, And suddenly the half-culled branch let go. Sing, magnarello, merrily, As the green leaves you gather! In their third sleep the silk-worms lie, And lovely is the weather. Like brown bees that in open glades From rosemary gather honey, The mulberry-trees swarm full of maids, Glad as the air is sunny! “And so you fancy I am fair to view, Fairer than Vinceneto?” “That I do!” “But what advantage have I more than she?” “Mother divine!” he cried, impetuously, “That of the goldfinch o’er the fragile wren-- Grace for the eye--song for the hearts of men “What more? Ah, my poor sister! Hear me speak,-- Thou wilt not get the white out of the leek: Her eyes are like the water of the sea, Blue, clear--thine, black, and they flash gloriously. And, O Mirèio! when on me they shine, I seem to drain a bumper of cooked wine! “My sister hath a silver voice and mellow,-- I love to hear her sing the _Peirounello_,-- But, ah! my sweet young lady, every word Thou’st given me my spirit more hath stirred, My ear more thrilled, my very heart-strings wrung, More than a thousand songs divinely sung! “With roaming all the pastures in the sun, My little sister’s face and neck are dun As dates; but thou, most fair one, I think well, Art fashioned like the flowers of Asphodel. So the bold Summer with his tawny hand Dare not caress thy forehead white and bland. “Moreover, Vinceneto is more slim Than dragon-flies that o’er the brooklet skim. Poor child! In one year grew she up to this; But verily in thy shape is naught amiss.” Again Mirèio, turning rosy red, Let fall her branch, and “What a Vincen!” said.