"Of what did he dream thus, and in secret? Why was he not of the feast? Why, alone among angels, as one that had sinned, did he bow the head?" II. "Lo! he has just knelt at the feet of God. What will he say? What will he do? To see and hear him, his brethren interrupt their song of praise." III. "'When Jesus, thy child, wept,--when he shivered with cold in the manger of Bethlehem,--it was my smile that consoled him, my wings that sheltered him, with my warm breath did I comfort him. "'And since then, O God, when a child weeps, in my pitying heart his voice resounds. Therefore forever now am I sick at heart,--therefore, O Lord, am I ever thoughtful. "'On earth, O God, I have something to do. Let me descend there. There are so many babes, poor milk-lambs, who, shivering with cold, weep and wail far from the breasts, far from the kisses of their mothers! In warm rooms will I shelter them,--will cover and tend them,--will nurse and caress them,--will lull them to rest. Instead of one mother, they shall each have twenty that shall give them suck and soothe them to sleep.'" IV. "And with heart and hand did the angels applaud,--a tremor of joy shot through the stars of heaven,--and, unfolding his pinions, with the rapidity of lightning the angel descended. The road-side smiled with flowers, as he passed,--and mothers trembled for joy; for infant-asylums arose wherever the child-angel trod." One of the first to respond to the call of Roumanille for the composition of the selection "Li Prouvençalo" was Th. Aubanel, also of Avignon. The "Segaire" (Mowers) and "Lou 9 Thermidor" made it plain, that, of the thirty names, that of the young printer would soon take a prominent place among the revivers of Southern letters. And now, eight years later, the promise of M. René Taillandier, in his introduction to the selection, has become reality. "La Miougrano Entreduberto" (The Opened Pomegranate) is printed with an accompanying French translation. Mistral, the brother-poet and friend of the author, thus announces the poems:-- "The pomegranate is of its nature wilder than other trees. It loves to grow in pebbly elevations (_clapeirolo_) in the full sun-rays, far from man and nearer to God. There alone, in the scorching summer-beams, it expands in secret its blood-red flowers. Love and the sun fecundate its bloom. In the crimson chalices thousands of coral-grains germ spontaneously, like a thousand fair sisters all under the same roof. "The swollen pomegranate holds imprisoned as long as it can the roseate seeds, the thousand blushing sisters. But the birds of the moor speak to the solitary tree, saying,--'What wilt thou do with the seeds? Even now comes the autumn, even now comes the winter, that chases us beyond the hills, beyond the seas.....And shall it be said, O wild pomegranate, that we have left Provence without seeing thy beautiful coral-grains, without having a glimpse of thy thousand virgin daughters?'