ntal or
grand-parental convoy who are its patrons--the very gayest sight in that
city of which gayety is the dominant characteristic the whole year
round.

VII

Not until "the day of the Kings," the Feast of the Epiphany, is the
creche completed. Then are added to the group the figures of the three
Kings--the Magi, as we call them in English: along with their gallant
train of servitors, and the hump-backed camels on which they have ridden
westward to Bethlehem guided by the Star. The Provencal children believe
that they come at sunset, in pomp and splendour, riding in from the
outer country, and on through the street of the village, and in through
the church door, to do homage before the manger in the transept where
the Christ-Child lies. And the children believe that it may be seen,
this noble procession, if only they may have the good fortune to hit
upon the road along which the royal progress to their village is to be
made. But Mistral has told about all this far better than I can tell
about it, and I shall quote here, by his permission, a page or two from
the "Memoirs" which he is writing, slowly and lovingly, in the
between-whiles of the making of his songs:

"To-morrow's the festival of the Kings. This evening they arrive. If
you want to see them, little ones, go quickly to meet them--and take
presents for them, and for their pages, and for the poor camels who
have come so far!"

That was what, in my time, the mothers used to say on the eve of
Epiphany--and, _zou!_ all the children of the village would be off
together to meet "les Rois Mages," who were coming with their pages
and their camels and the whole of their glittering royal suite to
adore the Christ-Child in our church in Maillane! All of us
together, little chaps with curly hair, pretty little girls, our
sabots clacking, off we would go along the Arles road, our hearts
thrilling with joy, our eyes full of visions. In our hands we would
carry, as we had been bidden, our presents: fougasso for the Kings,
figs for the pages, sweet hay for the tired camels who had come so
far.

On we would go through the cold of dying day, the sun, over beyond
the Rhone, dipping toward the Cevennes; leafless trees, red in low
sun-rays; black lines of cypress; in the fields an old woman with a
fagot on her head; beside the road an old man scratching under the
hedge for snails.

"Wher