of a Romantic; his art sense is derived
directly from the study of the Greek and Roman classics. In all that
Mistral has written there is very little that springs from his personal
sorrows. The great body of his poetry is epic in character, and the best
of his work in the lyric form gives expression not to merely personal
emotion, but to the feeling of the race to which he belongs.

The action of the poem begins one day that Vincen and his father Meste
Ambroi, the basket-makers, were wandering along the road in search of
work. Their conversation makes them known, and depicts for us the old
_Mas des Micocoules_, the home of the prosperous father of Mireio. We
learn of his wealth in lands, in olives, in almonds, and in bees. We
watch the farm-hands coming home at evening. When the basket-makers
reach the gate, they find the daughter of the house, who, having just
fed her silkworms, is now twisting a skein. The man and the youth ask to
sleep for the night upon a haystack, and stop in friendly talk with
Mireio. The poet describes Vincen, a dark, stalwart youth of sixteen,
and tells of his skill at his trade. Meste Ramoun invites them in to
supper. Mireio runs to serve them. In exquisite verse the poet depicts
her grace and beauty.

When all have eaten, at the request of the farm-hands, to which Mireio
adds hers, Meste Ambroi sings a stirring ballad about the naval
victories of Suffren, and the gallant conduct of the Provencal sailors
who whipped the British tars.

"And the old basket-maker finished his naval song in time, for his voice
was about to break in tears, but too soon, surely, for the farm-hands,
for, without moving, with their heads intent and lips parted, _long
after the song had ceased, they were listening still_."

And then the men go about their affairs and leave Vincen and Mireio
alone together. Their talk is full of charm. Vincen is eloquent, like a
true southerner, and tells his experiences with flashing eye and
animated gestures. Here we learn of the belief in the three Maries, who
have their church in the Camargue. Here Vincen narrates a foot-race in
which he took part at Nimes, and Mireio listens in rapt attention.

"It seems to me," said she to her mother, "that for a basket-maker's
child he talks wonderfully. O mother, it is a pleasure to sleep in
winter, but now the night is too bright to sleep, but let us listen
awhile yet. I could pass my evenings and my life listening to him."

The second ca