Mas du Juge—Birthplace of Frédéric Mistral.
would measure the heap of corn, tracing upon it a cross with the handle of the spade and uttering the words: “God give thee increase.”
I must have been scarcely four years old and still wearing petticoats, when one lovely afternoon during this threshing season, after rolling as children love to do in the new straw, I directed my steps towards the draw-well moat.
For some days past the fair water-iris had commenced to open, and my hands tingled to pluck some of the lovely golden buds.
Arrived at the stream, gently I slipped down to the edge of the water and thrust out my hand to grab the flower, but it was too far off; I stretched, and behold me in an instant up to the neck in water.
I cried out. My mother hurried to the rescue, hauled me out, bestowing a slap or two, and drove me like a dripping duck before her to the house.
“Let me catch you again, little good-for-nothing, at that moat!”
“I wanted to pick the water-iris,” I pleaded.