With a cock’s feather gayly set therein;
And, prancing onward, with a stick made spin
The flints from wayside stone-heaps, and set flying
The lazy adders in his pathway lying.
When suddenly, from the straight, leafy alley,
“Whither so fast?” a voice comes musically.
Mirèio’s. Vincen darts beneath the trees,
Looks up, and soon the merry maiden sees.
Perched on a mulberry-tree, she eyed the lad
Like some gray-crested lark,19 and he was glad.
“How then, Mirèio, comes the picking on?
Little by little, all will soon be done!
May I not help thee?”—“That were very meet,”
She said, and laughed upon her airy seat.
Sprang Vincen like a squirrel from the clover,
Ran nimbly up the tree, and said, moreover—
“Now since old Master Ramoun hath but thee,
Come down, I pray, and strip the lower tree!
I’ll to the top!” As busily the maiden
Wrought on, she murmured, “How the soul doth gladden
To have good company! There’s little joy
In lonely work!”—“Ay is there!” said the boy:
“For when in our old hut we sit alone,
Father and I, and only hear the Rhône
Rush headlong o’er the shingle, ’tis most drear!
Not in the pleasant season of the year,
For then upon our travels we are bound,
And trudge from farm to farm the country round.
“But when the holly-berries have turned red,
And winter comes, and nights are long,” he said,
“And sitting by the dying fire we catch
Whistle or mew of goblin at the latch;
And I must wait till bed-time there with him,
Speaking but seldom, and the room so dim,”—
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 cap20 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 silkworms 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!21
“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.
Sing, magnarello, merrily,
The green leaves ever piling!
Two comely children sit on high,
Amid the foliage, smiling.
Sing, magnarello, loud and oft:
Your merry labour hasten.
The guileless pair who laugh aloft
Are learning love’s first lesson.
Cleared from the hills meanwhile the mists of morn,
And o’er the ruined towers, whither return
Nightly the grim old lords of Baux, they say;
And o’er the barren rocks ’gan take their way
Vultures,22 whose large, white wings are seen to gleam
Resplendent in the noontide’s burning beam.
Then cried the maiden, pouting, “We have done
Naught! Oh, shame to idle so! Some one
Said he would help me; and that some one still
Doth naught but talk, and make me laugh at will.
Work now, lest mother say I am unwary
And idle, and too awkward yet to marry!
“Ah! my brave friend, I think should one engage you
To pick leaves by the quintal, and for wage, you
Would all the same sit still and feast your eyes,
Handling the ready sprays in dreamy wise!”
Whereat the boy, a trifle disconcerted,
“And so thou takest me for a gawky!” blurted.
“We’ll see, my fair young lady,” added he,
“Which of us two the better picker be!”
They ply both hands now. With vast animation,
They bend and strip the branches. No occasion
For rest or idle chatter either uses
(The bleating sheep, they say, her mouthful loses),
Until the mulberry-tree is bare of leaves,
And these the ready sack at once receives,
At whose distended mouth—ah, youth is sweet!—
Mirèio’s pretty taper hand will meet
In strange entanglement that somehow lingers
That Vincen’s, with its brown and burning fingers.
Both started. In their cheeks the flush rose higher:
They felt the heat of some mysterious fire.
They dropped the mulberry-leaves as if afraid,
And, tremulous with passion, the boy said—
“What aileth thee, my lady? answer me!
Did any hidden hornet dare sting thee?”
Well-nigh inaudible, with head bent low,
“I know not, Vincen,”—thus Mirèio.
And so they turned a few more leaves to gather,
And for a while spake not again, but rather
Exchanged bright looks and sidelong, saying well
The one who first should
