“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 Rhone
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 cap 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 silk-worms 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!