In friendly wise, under the willows wending; For these as well to Lotus Farm were tending. It also chanced that Master Ramoun went That eve to hearken for the wheat’s complaint Against the wind, wild waster of the grain; And, as he strode over the yellow plain From north to south, he heard the golden corn Murmuring, “See the ills that we have borne, Master, from this great gale. It spills our seed And blurs our bloom!”--“Put on your gloves of reed,” Sang others, “else the ants will be more fleet, And rob us of our all but hardened wheat. “When will the sickles come?” And Ramoun turned Toward the trees, and even then discerned The reapers rising in the distance dim; Who, as they nearer drew, saluted him With waving sickles flashing in the sun. Then roared the master, “Welcome, every one! “A very God-send!” cried he, loud and long; And soon the sheaf-binders about him throng, Saying, “Shake hands! Why, Holy Cross, look here! What heaps of sheaves, good master, will this year Cumber your treading-floor!”--“Mayhap,” said he: “We cannot alway judge by what we see. “Till all is trod, the truth will not be known. I have known years that promised,” he went on, “Eighty full bushels to the acre fairly, And yielded in their stead a dozen barely. Yet let us be content!” And, with a smile, He shook their hands all round in friendly style, And gossiped with old Ambroi affably. So entered all the homestead path, and he Called out once more, “Come forth, Mirèio mine: Prepare the chiccory and draw the wine!” And she right lavishly the table spread; While Ramoun first him seated at its head, And the rest in their order, for the lunch. Forthwith the labourers began to crunch Hard-crusted bread their sturdy teeth between, And hail the salad made of goats-beard green; While fair as an oat-leaf the table shone, And in superb profusion heaped thereon Were odorous cheese, onions and garlic hot, Grilled egg-plant, fiery peppers, and what not, To sting the palate. Master Ramoun poured The wine, king in the field and at the board; Raising his mighty flagon now and then, And calling for a bumper on the men. “To keep the sickles keen on stony ground, They must be often whetted, I have found.” The reapers held their goblets, bidden so, And red and clear the wine began to flow. “Ay, whet the blades!” the cheery master cries; And furthermore gives order in this wise: “Now eat your fill, and all your strength restore. But go thereafter, as you used of yore, And branches in the copse-wood cut, and bring In fagots; thus a great heap gathering. And when ’tis night, my lads, we’ll do the rest! For this the fête is of Saint John the blest,--