Hotel New York, Florence, Italy.

October 10, 19—.

To Signor Rafael Valla,

My dear Sir:—Can you leave your tops for a few moments and read a letter from your American friends, the Spragues?

Although we have been in Florence for more than a month, we have not yet forgotten our visit in Venice and our journey to Verona. We sat by the right-hand window in the train, as you told us to do; but I looked often across the way to see what could take place on the opposite side. Once I saw some storks that had flown down from Strassburg and were standing on their long legs in the marshes.

But our side of the train was truly the more pleasant one. There were grape-vines and mulberry trees and wheat-fields; and also cypress trees, which you did not mention, but which we were glad to see. Then there were big fields of watermelons ripening in the sun, and women gathering them in baskets which they carried on their heads across the fields.

In Verona we went to see the play in the colosseum by moonlight. I have never seen such a performance in our stadium at Harvard, and you have a right to be proud of the great colosseum.

There were four hundred performers on the stage at one time, and the play ended at "the twenty-three hours" with a gunpowder explosion that destroyed the fort,—the play fort, I mean.

And we looked at the tombs of the Scaligers, although I don't know any good reason for doing so; and then we came through the most beautiful country to Florence.

Men and women, dressed in gayest colors, were reaping with sickles in the wheat-fields. The grain was truly "golden grain," and there was never a foot of ground anywhere, whether the grain was standing or had fallen, without a flaming scarlet poppy. And every hill was green with trees and crowned with a castle or a tower.

We rode through miles and miles of vineyards, all arranged in pictures, for our benefit, as it seemed. The vines hung in festoons from long rows of mulberry trees. The trees were planted in rows that crossed one another, forming hollow squares, and the square spaces were filled with the scarlet poppies and the golden grain.

The trees grew so regularly, and the vines hung so gracefully—a single vine running from tree to tree—that we could not take our eyes from the lovely sight; and we have promised ourselves to see the gathering of the grapes, on our way from Florence to Rome.

At the toll-gate we found that we could not enter Florence until after our automobile and all our luggage had been examined. The officers seemed to fear that we were trying to smuggle something to eat, either fruit or vegetables, into the city.

It was in the midst of a thunder-storm; and not until the official was convinced that we were quite wet, and wished to enter in order to find shelter, and that we were truly a foreign lady and her daughter, on a sight-seeing tour, did he let us pass through the gates and enter the city.

And now, after our month's visit, I have a Florentine mosaic to take to America with my Venetian necklace.

The golden background of my mosaic is another sunset; one which we saw from the Shepherd's Tower, with the sky a rosy-pink, the River Arno taking its slow course through the city and reflecting the rosy light, and the surrounding hills all deep blue and amethyst.

The most precious stone of my mosaic is the glorious statue of David, on the heights of San Miniato. Perhaps, if Michael Angelo could have known, four hundred years ago, that I was going to have one minute of such very great happiness as when I first saw his work, he would have been very glad.

What a splendid fashion the Italians have of placing beautiful statues out of doors where everyone may see and admire them often! In America we crowd them all together in museums and charge an admission fee, so that one sees them but seldom, if at all.

There are many stones in my mosaic. Florence is well called the "City of Flowers." One sees flower-girls everywhere, and little Bianca, with the tanned face and the big black eyes, who comes to our door every morning with the sweetest and freshest of roses, is one of my friends.

Every Friday we have been to the market-place to see the peasants, who come in from the surrounding hillsides with loads of peaches, figs, grapes, pumpkins, watermelons, squashes,—all kinds of beautiful fruits and vegetables.

But I like best the boys who carry trays of plaster images which have been made in their little villages up among the mountains, and which they bring here just as they sometimes take them to America.

We saw also the straw market, and the women braiding the straw and making hats. You shall see the one which Mother bought for me, and which I wear every day.

And this brings me to the reason for writing you this letter. We are going to leave the music of the churches, the pictures, the sculptures, the peasants and the market-place, and go into the country to see the harvests.

I shall miss hearing the constant ringing of the church bells, and seeing the squads of soldiers marching to the sound of military music. And perhaps I shall never again sleep in a room with barred windows overlooking the blue waters of an Italian river, and look through those same bars into the faces of sweet nuns and shaven monks as they pass on the sidewalk outside.

But we can have the automobile only a few days longer, and it is our great wish that you join us in Florence and take the trip with us to Rome.

Then if you will but stay with us for a few weeks in Rome, we shall not get lost again because of being unable to speak Italian. Mother says that you will be tongue and eyes for us.

Your American friend,

Edith Sprague.