Lifting his hands, the old man sternly said,
“Weave on, and drive this folly from your head!
Shall the corn-ears rebuke the reaper, pray?
Or silly worm to God the Father say,
‘Why am I not a star in heaven to shine?’
Or shall the ox to be a drover pine,
“So to eat corn instead of straw? Nay, nay!
Through good and ill we all must hold our way.
The hand’s five fingers were unequal made.
Be you a lizard, as your Master bade,
And dwell content upon your wall apart,
And drink your sunbeam with a thankful heart!”
“I tell thee, father, I this maid adore
More than my sister, than my Maker more;
And if I have her not, ’tis death, I say!”
Then to the rough stream Vincen fled away;
While little Vinceneto burst out weeping,
Let fall her net, and near the weaver creeping,—
“O father! ere thou drive my brother wild,
Listen to me!” began the eager child:
“For where I served the master had a daughter;
And had a labourer, too, who loved and sought her,
Just as our Vincen loves Mirèio.
She was named Alis; he, Sivèstre: and so
“He laboured like a wolf because he loved.
Skilful and prompt, quiet and saving proved,
And took such care, master slept tranquilly;
But once—mark, father, how perverse men be!—
One morning master’s wife, as it befell,
O’erheard Sivèstre his love to Alis tell.
“So when at dinner all the men were sitting,
The master gave Sivèstre a wrathful greeting.
‘Traitor!’ he cried, with his eyes all aglow,
‘You are discovered! Take your wage, and go!’
We looked at one another in dismay,
As the good servant rose, and went his way.
“Thereafter, for three weeks, when we were working,
We used to see him round the farmstead lurking,—
A sorry sight; for all his clothes were torn,
And his face very pale and wild and worn.
And oft at eve he to the trellis came,
And called the little mistress by her name.
“Erelong the hay-rick at its corners four
Burnt all a-flame. And, father, something more!
They drew a drownèd man out of the well.”
Then Ambroi, in gruff tones half-audible,
“A little child a little trouble gives,
And more and more for every year he lives.”
Therewith put his long spatterdashes on
Which he himself had made in days bygone,
His hobnailed shoes, and long red cap, and so
Straightway set forth upon the road to Crau.
’Twas harvest-time, the eve of St. John’s day,
The hedgerow paths were crowded all the way
With troops of dusty, sunburnt mountaineers
Hired for the reaping of the golden ears.
In fig-wood quivers were their sickles borne,
Slung to a belt across the shoulder worn.
By twos and twos they came, and every pair
Had its own sheaf-binder. And carts were there,