Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the

music.

But among all who came young Gabriel only was

welcome;

115 Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the black

smith,

Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men;

For since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations,

Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by

the people.

Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from

earliest childhood

120 Grew up together as brother and sister; and Father Felician,

Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters

Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain-song.

But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed,

Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith.

125 There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him

Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a

plaything,

Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of the cart-wheel

Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders.

Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness

122 The plain-song is a monotonic recitative of the collects.

130 Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through

every cranny and crevice,

Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows,

And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes,

Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel.

Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle,

135 Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o'er

the meadow.

Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters,

Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow

Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings;

Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow!

140 Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children.

He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning,

Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into action.

She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes

of a woman.

133. The French have another saying similar to this, that they were guests going into the wedding.

139. In Pluquet's Contes Populaires we are told that if one of a swallow's young is blind the mother bird seeks on the shore of the ocean a little stone, with which she restores its sight; and he adds, "He who is fortunate enough to find that stone in a swallow's nest holds a wonderful remedy." Pluquet's book treats of Norman superstitions and popular traits.

"Sunshine of Saint Eulalie

"" was

she called; for

that was the sunshine

145 Which, as the farmers believed, would load their

orchards with apples;

She too would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance,

Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of chil

dren.

II.

Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer,

And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion

enters.

150 Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound,

Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands.

Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the winds of September

Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel.

All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement. 155 Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded

their honey

Till the hives overflcwed; and the Indian hunters

asserted

Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes.

144. Pluquet also gives this proverbial saying:

"Si le soleil rit le jour Sainte-Eulalie,

Il y aura pommes et cidre à folie."

(If the sun smiles on Saint Eulalie's day, there will be plenty of apples, and cider enough.)

Saint Eulalie's day is the 12th of February.

Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season,

Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints!

160 Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape

Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of child.

hood.

Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean

Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended.

Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards,

165 Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing

of pigeons,

All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love,

and the great sun

Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him;

While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow,

Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forest

170 Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels.

159 The Summer of All-Saints is our Indian Summer, All Saints Day being November 1st. The French also give this season the name of St. Martin's Summer, St. Martin's Day being November 11th.

170. Herodotus, in his account of Xerxes' expedition against Greece, tells of a beautiful plane-tree which Xerxes found, and was so enamored with that he dressed it as one might a woman and placed it under the care of a guardsman (vii. 31). Another writer, Ælian, improving on this, says he adorned with a necklace and bracelets.

Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness.

Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending

Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead.

Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other,

175 And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening.

Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful

heifer,

Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar,

Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection.

Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside,

180 Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog,

Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct,

Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly

Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers;

Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector,

185 When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled.

Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes,

Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its

odor.

Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks,