Page:Mistral - Mirèio. A Provençal poem.djvu/47

] The crickets, chirruping amid the dew, Paused more than once to listen. Often, too, The bird of evening, the sweet nightingale, Kept silence; thrilling so at Vincen's tale, As still she harked her leafy perch upon, She might have kept awake until the dawn.

"Oh, mother!" cried Mirèio, "surely never, Was weaver-lad so marvellously clever! I love to sleep, dear, on a winter night; But now I cannot,—it is all too light. Ah, just one story more before we go, For I could pass a lifetime listening so!"