The story of his life he himself has told most admirably in the preface to the first edition of Lis Isclo d’Or, published at Avignon in 1874.  He was born in 1830, on the 8th day of September, at Maillane.  Maillane is a village, near Saint-Remy, situated in the centre of a broad plain that lies at the foot of the Alpilles, the westernmost rocky heights of the Alps.  Here the poet is still living, and here he has passed his life almost uninterruptedly.  His father’s home was a little way out of the village, and the boy was brought up at the mas,[1] amid farm-hands and shepherds.  His father had married a second time at the age of fifty-five, and our poet was the only child of this second marriage.

The story of the first meeting of his parents is thus told by the poet:—­

“One year, on St. John’s day, Maitre Francois Mistral was in the midst of his wheat, which a company of harvesters were reaping.  A throng of young girls, gleaning, followed the reapers and raked up the ears that fell.  Maitre Francois (Meste Frances in Provencal), my father, noticed a beautiful girl that remained behind as if she were ashamed to glean like the others.  He drew near and said to her:—­

“‘My child, whose daughter are you?  What is your name?’

“The young girl replied, ’I am the daughter of Etienne Poulinet, Maire of Maillane.  My name is Delaide.’

“‘What! the daughter of the Maire of Maillane gleaning!’

“‘Maitre,’ she replied, ’our family is large, six girls and two boys, and although our father is pretty well to do, as you know, when we ask him for money to dress with, he answers, “Girls, if you want finery, earn it!” And that is why I came to glean.’

“Six months after this meeting, which reminds one of the ancient scene of Ruth and Boaz, Maitre Francois asked Maitre Poulinet for the hand of Delaide, and I was born of that marriage.”

His father’s lands were extensive, and a great number of men were required to work them.  The poem, Mireio, is filled with pictures of the sort of life led in the country of Maillane.  Of his father he says that he towered above them all, in stature, in wisdom, and in nobleness of bearing.  He was a handsome old man, dignified in language, firm in command, kind to the poor about him, austere with himself alone.  The same may be said of the poet to-day.  He is a strikingly handsome man, vigorous and active, exceedingly gracious and simple in manner.  His utter lack of affectation is the more remarkable, in view of the fact that he has been for years an object of adulation, and lives in constant and close contact with a population of peasants.