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
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—
“Saint John the reaper, and the friend of God.”
So spake the lord of all these acres broad.
The high and noble art of husbandry,
The rule of men, none better knew than he,
Or how to make a golden harvest grow
From dark sods moistened by the toiler’s brow.
A grave and simple master of the soil,
Whose frame was bending now with years and toil;
Yet oft, of old, when floors were full of wheat,
Glowing with pride he had performed the feat,
Before his youthful corps, upright to stand
Bearing two pecks upon each horny hand.
He could the influence of the moon rehearse;
Tell when her look is friendly, when adverse;
When she will raise the sap, and when depress;
The coming weather from her halo guess,
And from her silver-pale or fiery face.
Clear signs to him were birds and keen March days,
And mouldy bread and noisome August fogs,
St. Clara’s dawn, the rainbow-hued sun-dogs,
Wet seasons, times of drought and frost and plenty.
Full oft, in pleasant years, a-ploughing went he,
With six fair, handsome beasts. And, verily,
Myself have seen, and it was good to see,
The soil part silently before the share,
And its dark bosom to the sun lay bare:
The comely mules, ne’er from the furrow breaking,
Toiled on as though they care and thought were taking
For what they did. With muzzles low they went,
And arching necks like bows when these are bent,
And hasted not, nor lagged. Followed along—
Eye on the mules, and on his lips a song—
The ploughman, with one handle only guiding.
So, in the realm where we have seen presiding
Our old friend Ramoun, flourished every thing,
And he bare sceptre like a very king.
Now says he grace, and lifts his eyes above,
And signs the holy cross. The labourers move
Away to make the bonfire ready. These
Bring kindling; those, the boughs of dark pine-trees;
And the old men alone at table staying,
A silence fell. But Ambroi brake it, saying—
“For counsel, Ramoun, am I come to thee;
For I am in a great perplexity
Thou only canst resolve. Cure see I none.
Thou knowest, Master, that I have a son
Who has been passing good until this day—
It were ingratitude aught else to say;
“But there are flaws even in precious stones,
And tender lambs will have convulsions,
And the still waters are perfidious ever:
So my mad boy—thou wilt believe it never—
He loves the daughter of a rich freeholder,
And swears he will in his embrace enfold her!
“Ay, swears he will, the maniac! And his love
And his despair my soul to terror move.
I showed him all his folly, be thou sure,
And how wealth gains, and poverty grows poor
In this hard world. In vain! He would but call,
‘Cost what it may, tell thou her parents all—
“ ‘Tell them to look for virtue, not for gain!
Tell them that I can plough a stony plain,
Or harrow, or prune vines with any man!
Tell them their six yoke, with my guiding, can
Plough double! Tell them I revere the old;
And, if they part us for the sake of gold,
“ ‘We
