Page:Mistral - Mirèio. A Provençal poem.djvu/165

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"When will the sickles come?" And Ramoun turned
Toward the trees, and even then discerned
The reapers rising in the distance dim;
Who, as they nearer drew, saluted him
With waving sickles flashing in the sun.
Then roared the master, "Welcome, every one!

"A very God-send!" cried he, loud and long;
And soon the sheaf-binders about him throng,
Saying, "Shake hands! Why, Holy Cross, look here!
What heaps of sheaves, good master, will this year
Cumber your treading-floor!"—"Mayhap," said he:
"We cannot alway judge by what we see.

"Till all is trod, the truth will not be known.
I have known years that promised," he went on,
"Eighty full bushels to the acre fairly,
And yielded in their stead a dozen barely.
Yet let us be content!" And, with a smile,
He shook their hands all round in friendly style,

And gossiped with old Ambroi affably.
So entered all the homestead path, and he
Called out once more, "Come forth, Mirèio mine:
Prepare the chiccory and draw the wine!"
And she right lavishly the table spread;
While Kamoun first him seated at its head,