Page:Mistral - Mirèio. A Provençal poem.djvu/205

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And brighten up with dances and are blithe.
He might have been a master of the scythe,
Could he have held the straight, laborious path;
But, when the fête-days came, farewell the swath,
And welcome revels underneath the trees,
And orgies in the vaulted hostelries,

And bull-baitings, and never-ending dances!
A very roisterer he who now advances,
With, "As we, master, in long sweeps were mowing,
I hailed a nest of francolines, just showing
Under a tuft of tares; and, as I bent
Over the pendent grass, with the intent

"To count the fluttering things, what do I see
But horrible red ants—oh, misery!—
In full possession of the nest and young!
Three were then dead. The rest, with vermin stung,
Their little heads out of the nest extended,
As though, poor things, they cried to be defended;

"But a great cloud of ants, more venomous
Than nettles, greedy, eager, furious,
Them were o'erwhelming even then; and I,
Leaning upon my scythe right pensively,
Could hear, far off, the mother agonize
Over their cruel fate, with piteous cries."