Then the white moon wrapped herself again, the birdling on the branch flew off in fright, even the glow-worm, poor little thing, put out his lamp, and quickly crept away under the grass.  And it is said that at the wedding of poor Margai there was little feasting, little laughing, and the betrothal and the dancing took place in a spot where fire was seen through the crevices.

“Vale of Val-Mairane, road to the Baux, never again o’er hill or plain did ye see Margai.  Her mother prays and weeps, and will not have enough of speaking of her lovely shepherdess.”

This weird, legendary tale was composed in 1848.  The next effort of the poet is one of his masterpieces, wherein his inspiration is truest and most poetical. La Fin dou Meissounie (The Reaper’s Death) is a noble, genuinely pathetic tale, told in beautifully varied verse, full of the love of field work, and aglow with sympathy for the toilers.  The figure of the old man, stricken down suddenly by an accidental blow from the scythe of a young man mowing behind him, as he lies dying on the rough ground, urging the gleaners to go on and not mind him, praying to Saint John,—­the patron of the harvesters,—­is one not to be forgotten.  The description of the mowing, the long line of toilers with their scythes, the fierce sun making their blood boil, the sheaves falling by hundreds, the ruddy grain waving in the breath of the mistral, the old chief leading the band, “the strong affection that urged the men on to cut down the harvest,”—­all is vividly pictured, and foretells the future poet of Mireio.  The words of the old man are full of his energy and faith:  “The wheat, swollen and ripe, is scattering in the summer wind; do not leave to the birds and ants, O binders, the wheat that comes from God!” “What good is your weeping? better sing with the young fellows, for I, before you all, have finished my task.  Perhaps, in the land where I shall be presently, it will be hard for me, when evening comes, to hear no more, stretched out upon the grass, as I used to, the strong, clear singing of the youth rising up amid the trees; but it appears, friends, that it was my star, or perhaps the Master, the One above, seeing the ripe grain, gathers it in.  Come, come, good-by, I am going gently.  Then, children, when you carry off the sheaves upon the cart, take away your chief on the load of wheat.”

And he begs Saint John to remember his olive trees, his family, who will sup at Christmas-tide without him.  “If sometimes I have murmured, forgive me!  The sickle, meeting a stone, cries out, O master Saint John, the friend of God, patron of the reapers, father of the poor, up there in Paradise, remember me.”

And after the old man’s death “the reapers, silent, sickle in hand, go on with the work in haste, for the hot mistral was shaking the ears.”