Evening Republican, Volume 22, Number 10, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 11 January 1919 — VINTAGE TIME IN TUSCANY [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

VINTAGE TIME IN TUSCANY

IT WAS the vintage time, and T tried to forget that half of Christendom was plunged in a great war. Leaving the fighting line, I wandered about in tl\,e lovely freedom of the hill country of Tuscany, past vlllas which are surmised 'rather than seen through the long vistas of grave, still cypresses and around smiling, silvergreen olive slopes from whose summits beckon dignified palace fortresses of the Medicis or sterner and more aged ivy-decked towers, writes a Tuscany correspondent of the New York Evening Post. Finally, I reached the road of my morning’s quest and stopped where a high wall, after many turns and twists, suddenly opened to a vision of green, terraces. It was the gate to the podere upon which Tonino and his forebears have labored for "the last century and a half— Ily “gdln/ to the liirid,” slot as serfs, but as willing servants of the soil. Entering the terraced farm, I sklrted a stout wall with Ivy spreading lovingly over its gray stones; a hedge of winter roses followed me in fragrant companionship, all the way to Tonino’s farmhouse, a structure poised bravely over a precipitous ledge of rocks. The house itself might be called an architectural slant of walls, chimneys, stone flags and steps running off and 1 ' down in all directions till they seem to merge with the vines and- the olive tree and the green sod. I lingered a moment, then followed in the wake of a primitive oxcart, painted bright red, on which the empty grape vats rumbbled sonorously as the plodding beasts dragged their draft over the stony road. Harvesting the Grape Crop. It was a pagan—almost bacchanalian —picture, as those huge cattle, white and big-horned, moved slowly and processionally down the way, flanked by grape vines in endless, festive wreaths and festoons strung from tree to tree. At the lower terrace a host of neighbors was-busily at work cutting the grapes, dropping the luscious bunches into picturesque , baskets lying all about. The sum-played in glad, shifting shadows in and out of the vines and olive trees, while the damp soil, drinking in the solar warmth, exuded a moisture heavily odorous with the abounding vitality of Mother Earth. The harvesters included many women. some territorial soldiers on leave and a few children. No one, old or young, gave signs of fatigue; the labor was pursued slowly and easily,- not at all as a struggle in overcoming time, or resistance. It 'was this seeming slowness of the laborers in Italy which often gives to the outsider, especially to the nervous and strenuous American observer, the impression of a wastage of time in the accomplishment of things. This apparent slowness, however, is rather a wise, restraint and distribution of effort, coupled.with traditional skill or special hardiness, which bring about results by deftness as well as by mere expenditure of force. ■- / So, at this harvesting, all of that crowded, terraced acres gehad been shorn of its grapes by sundown, and all the fruit carried away to the wine press. ' r ..—=- Supper for Tonino’s Laborers. At nine in the evening we gathered at Tonino’s house for the harvest supper, ,to which, by immemorial custoni, everyone who has labored in the vineyards must be invited. We entered by the kitchqp door, near which hung a oil lamp patterned after those of the Etruscans; at the long table ip the main room of this casa colonica sat three generations of harvesters — 24 men, women-and children. A warm, soothing, “natural” odor of oxen and stable, came thinly and not unpleasantly into the feast chambef, which'ha’d that dignity of proportion and fine simplicity of lines which speaks of Tuscan taste, even in these humble, quarters. A light hung from the center, of the ceiling threw a rather dim illumination over th e festive board, But amply sufficient for us to our impending attack. First soup was served from huge bowls Into deep, ca-

pacious dishes; next came a rich and satisfying fritto misto, and then large platters, burdened with pasta redolent—with an herb savored There was plenty of honest wine to wash down the huge slashes of war bread served oujL generously to all of us. No Bitterness in War Talk. After the pleasant business of eating was over the men started talking about the war. It was a simple, rather objective discussion, without bitterness or hatred, of something unpleasant which had to be done, but all must wish that it should be ended and laid aside as soon as possible. Then the conversation waxed warm in the more direct arid personal realities, of the year’s corps, and the promise fOr the coming seasons. One by one the little children snuggled closer to .their * mothers’ sides and childish heads bent sleepily over the table or fell, relaxed and safe, on arms soft and solicitous with maternal care. The drowsiness of a hard day’s labor crept irresistibly upon the men, urging them "*to well-earned and refreshing sleep. We said good night and started homeward; the"Nttle oil lamp by the door had flickered out, but a faint moonlight, was bathing the landscape in a soft, mystical/indistinctness; far away the domes and towers of Florence rose skyward like dream symbols of hopes and darings, of love,and faith. I sat in contemplation, watching the moonlight wax stronger and brighter, making more real and definite the picture of peace on earth spread so wondrously before me, till my thoughts wandered away to another harvest scene, far removed among sterner but no less peace loving mountains, a harvest scene of battle wherein men like ~ those with whom I had gathered grapes today were the protagonists. We have been told of the thrill of a gallant assault and the stirring emotiohs of a brave defense, but what of the harvest after the decisive fighting is over arid brie walks over the fields plowed by the merciless artillery and harrowed by the struggles and the sufferings of men. What of the fruitage of battle, not alone of the dead and the wounded we have been told so often, but of all the other and indescribably sad things which the eye' and the heart of the harvest gathers! Amidst Scenes of Desolation. Look! A once flourishing little town, wijh not a single one of its houses unscathed, rind -most of them horribly rent asunder, showing the debris of what had bnce been the privacy and the sanctity of peaceful hearths. In the partial shelter of these shells of homes along the main streets of the town, countless men are fitting or crouching, in full fighting equipment, waiting for orders to proceed to the front trenches, where a battle has just been fought and won. Let us walk to the .battlefield; it is reached through a pine wood still sirtaklng resinously from the fires which the bursting shells have started. The road is wholly exposed to the range of the enemy’s artillery, but thousands of -men have gallantly crossed it In order to reach their comrades in the trenches beyond. You can see what the harvest has been . here! These are fragments of shrapnel and unexploded shells along every foot of the line; by the whir of the projectiles still passing over our heads we can reconstruct the scene of fife of some hours ago; the shells whizz by us with that horrible suggestive sound which seeihs. to say: Coming, Coming. Bang—and you diet

A Road in Tuscany.