The second canto opens with the exquisite stanza beginning,—­

    “Cantas, cantas, magnanarello
    Que la culido es cantarello!”

and the poet evidently fell in love with its music, for he repeats it, with slight variations, several times during the canto.  This second canto is a delight from beginning to end; Mistral is here in his element; he is at his very best.  The girls sing merrily in the lovely sunshine as they gather the silkworms, Mireio among them.  Vincen passes along, and the two engage in conversation.  Mistral cannot be praised too highly for the sweetness, the naturalness, the animation of this scene.  Mireio learns of Vincen’s lonely winter evenings, of his sister, who is like Mireio but not so fair, and they forget to work.  But they make good the time lost, only now and then their fingers meet as they put the silkworms into the bag.  And then they find a nest of little birds, and the saying goes that when two find a nest at the top of a tree a year cannot pass but that Holy Church unite them.  So says Mireio; but Vincen adds that this is only true if the young escape before they are put into a cage.  “Jesu moun Dieu! take care,” cries the young girl, “catch them carefully, for this concerns us.”  So Vincen gets the young birds, and Mireio puts them carefully into her bodice; but they dig and scratch, and must be transferred to Vincen’s cap; and then the branch breaks, and the two fall together in close embrace upon the soft grass.  The poet breaks into song:—­

“Fresh breezes, that stir the canopy of the woods, let your merry murmur soften into silence over the young couple!  Wandering zephyrs, breathe softly, give time to dream, give them time at least to dream of happiness!  Thou that ripplest o’er thy bed, go slowly, slowly, little brook!  Make not so much sound among the stones, make not so much sound, for the two souls have gone off, in the same beam of fire, like a swarming hive—­let them hover in the starry air!”

But Mireio quickly releases herself; the young man is full of anxiety lest she be hurt, and curses the devilish tree “planted a Friday!” But she, with a trembling she cannot control, tells of an inner torment that takes away hearing and sight, and keeps her heart beating.  Vincen wonders if it may not be fear of a scolding from her mother, or a sunstroke.  Then Mireio, in a sudden outburst, like a Wagnerian heroine, confesses her love to the astonished boy, who remains dazed, and believes for a time that she is cruelly trifling with him.  She reassures him, passionately.  “Do not speak so,” cries the boy, “from me to you there is a labyrinth; you are the queen of the Mas, all bow before you; I, peasant of Valabregue, am nothing, Mireio, but a worker in the fields!” “Ah, what is it to me whether my beloved be a baron or a basket-weaver, provided he is pleasing to me.  Why, O Vincen, in your rags do you appear to me so handsome?”