“O father! ere thou drive my brother wild, Listen to me!” began the eager child: “For where I served the master had a daughter; And had a labourer, too, who loved and sought her, Just as our Vincen loves Mirèio. She was named Alis; he, Sivèstre: and so “He laboured like a wolf because he loved. Skilful and prompt, quiet and saving proved, And took such care, master slept tranquilly; But once--mark, father, how perverse men be!-- One morning master’s wife, as it befell, O’erheard Sivèstre his love to Alis tell. “So when at dinner all the men were sitting, The master gave Sivèstre a wrathful greeting. ‘Traitor!’ he cried, with his eyes all aglow, ‘You are discovered! Take your wage, and go!’ We looked at one another in dismay, As the good servant rose, and went his way. “Thereafter, for three weeks, when we were working, We used to see him round the farmstead lurking,-- A sorry sight; for all his clothes were torn, And his face very pale and wild and worn. And oft at eve he to the trellis came, And called the little mistress by her name. “Erelong the hay-rick at its corners four Burnt all a-flame. And, father, something more! They drew a drownèd 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 Hired for the reaping of the golden ears. 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 “Right pleasant reaping! The wind bows them over; But see you not how quickly they recover? Is all the wheat-crop of Provence thus cheering, Grandfather?” asked a youth, old Ambroi nearing. “The red is backward still,” he made reply; “But, if this windy weather last, deem I “Sickles will fail us ere the work be done. How like three stars the Christmas candles shone! That was a blessed sign of a good year!” “Now, grandfather, may the good God thee hear, And in thy granary the same fulfil!” So Ambroi and the reapers chatted still