-First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill,
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half-past nine by the meet'n'house clock, –
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!
- What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once,
All at once, and nothing first,
Just as bubbles do when they burst.
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is logic. That's all I say.
(From "Mirèio": translated by Harriet W. Preston.)
[FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL is one of a group of writers called "Les Félibriges,” whose aim is the "restoration" of the Provençal literature. He was born near Maillane, in the department of Bouches-du-Rhône, September 8, 1830, and
1 Copyright, 1872, by Roberts Brothers. Published by permission of Little, Brown & Co.
studied law at Avignon. His masterpiece is the epic "Mirèio" (1859), which gained the poet's prize of the French Academy and secured for the author the Cross of the Legion of Honor. Other works are: the poems "Calendau" and "The Golden Isles," "Nerto," a novel, and a Provençal-French lexicon.]
I SING the love of a Provençal maid;
How through the wheat fields of La Crau she strayed,
Following the fate that drew her to the sea.
Unknown beyond remote La Crau was she;
And I, who tell the rustic tale of her,
Would fain be Homer's humble follower.
What though youth's aureole was her only crown?
And never gold she wore nor damask gown?
I'll build her up a throne out of my song,
And hail her queen in our despised tongue.
Mine be the simple speech that ye all know,
Shepherds and farmer folk of lone La Crau.
God of my country, who didst have Thy birth
Among poor shepherds when Thou wast on earth,
Breathe fire into my song! Thou knowest, my God,
How, when the lusty summer is abroad,
And figs turn ripe in sun and dew, comes he,
Brute, greedy man, and quite despoils the tree.
Yet on that ravaged tree thou savest oft
Some little branch inviolate aloft,
Tender and airy up against the blue,
Which the rude spoiler cannot win unto:
Only the birds shall come and banquet there,
When, at St. Magdalene's, the fruit is fair.
Methinks I see yon airy little bough:
It mocks me with its freshness even now;
The light breeze lifts it, and it waves on high
Fruitage and foliage that cannot die.
Help me, dear God, on our Provençal speech,
To soar until the birds' own home I reach!
Once, then, beside the poplar-bordered Rhone,
There lived a basket weaver and his son,
In a poor hut set round with willow trees
(For all their humble wares were made from these);
And sometimes they from farm to farm would wend,
And horses' cribs and broken baskets mend.
And so one evening, as they trudged their round
With osier bundles on their shoulders bound,
"Father," young Vincen said, "the clouds look wild
About old Magalouno's tower uppiled.
If that gray rampart fell, 'twould do us harm:
We should be drenched ere we had gained the farm."
"Nay, nay!" the old man said, "no rain to-night! 'Tis the sea breeze that shakes the trees. All right! A western gale were different." Vincen mused: "Are many plows at Lotus farmstead used?" "Six plows!" the basket weaver answered slow: "It is the finest freehold in La Crau.
"Look! There's their olive orchard, intermixt
With rows of vines and almond trees betwixt.
The beauty of it is, that vineyard hath
For every day in all the year a path!
There's ne'er another such the beauty is;
And in each path are just so many trees."
"O heavens! How many hands at harvest tide So many trees must need!" young Vincen cried. "Nay for 'tis almost Hallowmas, you know, When all the girls come flocking in from Baux, And, singing, heap with olives green and dun The sheets and sacks, and call it only fun."
The sun was sinking, as old Ambroi said;
On high were little clouds aflush with red;
Sideways upon their yokèd cattle rode
The laborers slowly home, each with his goad
Erect. Night darkened on the distant moor;
'Twas supper time, the day of toil was o'er.
"And here we are!" the boy cried. "I can see
The straw-heaped threshing floor, so hasten we!"
"But stay!" the other. "Now, as I'm alive,
The Lotus Farm's the place for sheep to thrive —
The pine woods all the summer, and the sweep
Of the great plain in winter. Lucky sheep!
"And look at the great trees that shade the dwelling,
And look at that delicious stream forth welling
Inside the vivary! And mark the bees!
Autumn makes havoc in their colonies;
But every year, when comes the bright May weather, Yon lotus grove a hundred swarms will gather."
"And one thing more!" cried Vincen, eagerly, "The very best of all, it seems to me,
I mean the maiden, father, who dwells here.
Thou canst not have forgotten how, last year,
She bade us bring her olive baskets two,
And fit her little one with handles new."
So saying, they drew the farmhouse door anigh,
And, in the dewy twilight, saw thereby
The maid herself. Distaff in hand she stood,
Watching her silkworms at their leafy food.
Then Master Ambroi let his osiers fall,
And sang out cheerily, "Good even, all!"
"Father, the same to you!" the damsel said. "I had come out my distaff point to thread, It grows so dark. Whence come you now, I pray? From Valabrègo?" Ambroi answered, "Yea. I said, when the fast-coming dark I saw, 'We'll sleep at Lotus Farm, upon the straw.""
Whereat, with no more words, father and son
Hard by upon a roller sat them down,
And fell to their own work right busily.
A half-made cradle chanced the same to be.
Fast through the nimble fingers of the two
The supple osier bent and crossed and flew.
Certes, our Vincen was a comely lad.
A bright face and a manly form he had,
Albeit that summer he was bare sixteen.
Swart were his cheeks; but the dark soil, I ween,
Bears the fine wheat, and black grapes make the wine That sets our feet adance, our eyes ashine.
Full well he knew the osier to prepare,
And deftly wrought: but ofttimes to his share
Fell coarser work; for he the panniers made
Wherewith the farmers use their beasts to lade,
And divers kinds of baskets, huge and rough,
Handy and light. Ay, he had skill enough!
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