Then the fair maid of Crau, when she had dipped
Her burning lips into the pail, and sipped,
Quickly upraised a lovely, rosy face,
And, “Little one! what dost thou here?” she says.
A pause. “Pick snailies from the stones and grass?”
“Thou hast guessed right!” the urchin’s answer was.
“Here in my basket have I—see, how many!
Nuns, harvest-snails, and these, as good as any!”
“And thou dost eat them”—“Nay, not I,” replied he;
“But mother carries them to Arles on Friday,
And sells them; and brings back nice, tender bread.
Thou wilt have been to Arles?”—“Never!” she said.
“What, never been to Arles! But I’ve been there!
Ah, poor young lady! Couldst thou see how fair
And large a city that same Arles is grown!
She covers all the seven mouths of the Rhone.
Upon the islands of the great salt-mere
Her cattle graze: wild horses doth she rear.
“And in one summer, corn enough doth grow,
To feed her seven full years, if need were so.
She’s fishermen who fish on every sea,—
Seamen who front the storms right valiantly
Of distant waters.” Thus with pretty pride
The boy his sunny country glorified,
In golden speech;—her blue and heaving ocean;
Her Mont Majour, that keeps the mills in motion,—
These with soft olives ever feeding fully;
Her bitterns in the marshes booming dully.
One thing alone, thou lovely, dusky town,
The child forgat,—of all thy charms the crown;
He said not, fruitful Arles, that thy fine air
Gives to thy daughters beauty rich and rare,
As grapes to autumn, or as wings to bird,
Or fragrance to the hill-sides. Him had heard
The country maiden, sadly, absently.
But now, “Bright boy, wilt thou not go with me?”
She said; “for, ere the frogs croak in the willow,
My foot must planted be beyond the billow.
Come with me! I must o’er the Rhone be rowed,
And left there in the keeping of my God!”
“Now, then,” the urchin cried, “thou poor, dear lady,
Thou art in luck! for we are fishers,” said he;
“And thou shalt sleep under our tent this night,
Pitched in the shadow of the poplars white,
So keeping all thy pretty clothing on;
And father, with the earliest ray of dawn,
In our own little boat will put thee o’er!”
But she, “Do not detain me, I implore:
“I am yet strong enough this night to wander.”
“Now God forbid!” was the lad’s prompt rejoinder:
“Wouldst thou see, then, the crowd of sorry shapes
From the Trau-de-la-Capo that escapes?
For if they meet thee, be thou sure of this,—
They’ll drag thee with them into the abyss!”
“Trau-de-la-Capo! What may that be, pray?”
“I’ll tell thee, lady, as we pick our way
Over the stones.” And forthwith he began:
“Once was a treading-floor that overran
With wealth of sheaves. To-morrow, on thy ways,
Thou’lt pass, upon the riverside, the place.