To Madre Mia in Venice:—

I am still glad! Yet it would not be so if you were not also glad for me.

It was the joy of the morning to find a letter from you to-day. Two letters have I now had in my life, and both from Italy. I had thought we Italians had letters from nobody but "friends in America," as Paolo, the fruit-man, always says.

And you say that Nicolo wishes to buy my boat; and that he will pay for it after he has carried many passengers under the three bridges of the Grand Canal, and to the Lido.

Well, say to him that I cannot sell my boat. Did I not make it myself, from an old fisherman's boat, with only a little help from Carlo, in his workshop on the canal of the chestnut trees? And of a truth I will not sell it to Nicolo. But I shall give it to him for his birthday gift, if in return he will carry old Grandmother Nanna every Sunday morning to early Mass, so that she will not miss it because I am no longer there.

I shall never want the boat again, because I am going to become a citizen of Florence.

It is true that we leave to-day for our automobile ride to Rome, but I shall come back again. That is what everyone does who has once been here.

Why did you not tell me about the Palazzo Vecchio with the wonderful statues in the Loggia? Did you think that because we have so much beauty in our old Venice I should care for none elsewhere?

And the pictures in the Pitti and the Uffizi palaces,—you should have warned me that I would wear my eyes out with much looking at them! And it is one thing to hear of Michael Angelo, and quite another to see his great works!

The American lady, Mrs. Sprague, with her guide-book, follows the English-speaking guide about, and continually interrupts him to ask, "At what page have we arrived now?"

But her daughter is different. She carries no guide-book. She has a boy's mind and asks questions about everything. She asked me about the tunnels through which my train came from Venice. Ah, those tunnels! There were twenty-two of them in sixteen miles, and the train whizzed in and out in the most exciting manner.

More I cannot say, but that I am perfectly happy! And I shall sign my name Benvenuto, because the American girl says I am welcome.

A thousand greetings to you, from your absent crab of a boy in Florence,

Rafael Valla.

During that wonderful automobile ride from Florence to Rome, Rafael was glad that his mother had told him so many stories of her native city. There was pointed out to him on one of the Tuscan hills not far from Florence, the same yoke of oxen that had drawn the car through the city streets on the previous Easter, and he was able to tell Edith the whole story of the "Burning of the Car."

The chauffeur, under Mrs. Sprague's directions, took them off the highway and close to the oxen and their driver. The horns of the oxen were decorated with garlands of flowers and gay paper streamers, because they were again to take part in a festival,—the festival of the vintage; and on the drag behind them rested a great tun for the wine.

Rafael spoke to the smiling contadino and asked if they might follow him to the harvest.

"Not follow," he answered; "the oxen move but slowly, and must first drag the tun to the wine-cellar at the farm-house. But you may lead," he added. "It is a straight road along the base of the hill and across the brook, to the gate of the vineyard."

So they sped along in the automobile, and soon reached the busiest, merriest place that Edith had ever seen. Men and women, boys and girls, all dressed in the brightest, gayest colors, were cutting grapes from the vines which hung in long festoons from tall trees. They were constantly coming and going, with full baskets or empty ones, and some of the boys had climbed ladders to pick the grapes from the tree-tops.

There was much shouting and laughter, with happy calls to one another about the number of baskets of grapes each had picked, and the number of lire the work would bring.

"See how carefully that boy is cutting the grapes from the vines," observed Edith, pointing to a lad about Rafael's age, who sang as he worked, and who lifted the luscious, purple clusters of fruit into his basket as lovingly as if they could feel the touch of his hand.

Mrs. Sprague called attention to some of the vines, which had already been stripped of leaves as well as fruit.

"Why do they pick the leaves also?" she had Rafael ask one of the men.

He answered that the grapes grew so thickly that it was necessary to pick off the leaves in order that the fruit might get the full benefit of the sun. "There is much to do for the grapes before they can be picked," he added. "We must see to it that neither hail nor wind spoils the clusters before the vintage."

Then he explained that the grapes would soon be taken to the house and poured into great vats, where they would be made into wine.

Before Edith could ask about this process, Rafael shouted, "The oxen! Here come the oxen!" and she turned to see the gaily decorated, white oxen moving slowly across the field, drawing a big wagon.

The driver led the oxen to the farther end of the vineyard, and the boys and girls climbed upon the wagon with their baskets, and were carried under the festoons of vines, picking clusters of grapes here and there as they rode slowly along.

"I should like to help pick the grapes," said Edith wistfully, as she watched the merry pickers at their task.

Rafael asked one of the men if she might be allowed to do so. He smiled and nodded, pointing to an empty basket on the ground, and soon the two children were filling it together, and laughing and shouting with the others.

"This is like a moving picture," Edith said to Rafael, when at last their basket was filled and they had climbed into the ox-cart to ride with the overflowing baskets and grape-stained children to the farm-house.

As they passed under the vines, Edith cut off some of the trailing ends and made crowns for the bareheaded, black-haired peasant girls, and one of them, more daring than the others, crowned Edith's own black hair.

Mrs. Sprague had already found her way to the house, and to the heart of the farmer's wife, by admiring the little baby that lay sleeping in its cradle under a fig tree near-by.

The baby was wrapped in a swaddling band, a piece of linen four or five yards long, which is wound round and round the tiny body, beginning just under the arms and ending at the toes. It is a curious fashion the Italians have of dressing their babies, and has been followed ever since the Mother Mary wrapped the infant Jesus in a swaddling band, so many hundred years ago.

"Pretty bambino," Mrs. Sprague had said, pointing to the baby, and the mother had found a hundred things to say in reply, in her voluble Italian fashion, not one word of which Mrs. Sprague could understand.

The farmer's wife was still talking when the vintage procession swung into the yard, the boys and girls lifting their voices in a festival song and keeping time to the swinging of the horns of the great white oxen.

Then there was the merry confusion of emptying the grapes into the huge vats, and the choosing of certain men and maidens to trample out the purple juice.

Two or three always stand together in a single vat and press the grapes with their bare feet, thus forcing out the juice, which runs through an opening in the base of the vat into a wooden bucket.

Some of the farmers use a machine to press the grapes, but many think it should be done, as it was in old Bible times, with the human foot. It seems that the feet know how to avoid crushing the seeds and the skins, as a machine cannot know.

Rafael asked to be allowed to press the grapes in one of the vats, and after permission had been given him, Edith suddenly asked to do it also.

The farmer shook his head doubtfully. "It is very hard work," he objected.

Edith bade Rafael say that she was an American girl, and not afraid of hard work, and at last she was permitted to stand with the Italian boy in the vat and tread until she grew tired.

However, to stand in the midst of juicy grapes means to spoil one's clothes, so the farmer's wife took Edith and Rafael into the house and dressed them like peasant children.

There was much laughing and shouting from the other boys and girls over the sight of the two strange wine-treaders, and it reminded Edith of something. "Doesn't the Bible speak of the singing and laughing that go with the vintage?" she asked her mother.

"Yes," answered Mrs. Sprague, "there are many references in the Bible to the vineyard and the vintage; and also to the fig trees, which seem always to be planted in the vineyard."

"When I was learning in my Sunday-school lessons about the vine and the fig tree, I never dreamed that some day I should be eating grapes and ripe figs, and treading in the wine-press, as they did in olden times," said Edith.

"It will be the best wine in the whole country," said the farmer, when at last Edith was lifted out, her feet crimson with the blood of the grapes.

"I must see where they put it," she said, and followed to the dark wine-cellar, where the grape juice was poured into a tank and left to ferment.

It was late in the afternoon when they were once more in readiness to continue their journey toward Rome. The farmer's wife, who had told them all her family history, in Italian, would have been glad to keep them over night, but Mrs. Sprague shook her head.

"Tell her that the bambino is very cunning," she said to Rafael, "but we must be far along on our journey to-night."

Rafael's heart sang again, "I am so glad to go!" Every moment spent in the automobile was one of joy to him. He barely noticed the queer old streets and ancient buildings of the towns through which they passed. He cared more for the rapid motion of the car, and the sensation of flying through the air; and besides, he knew well the customs of the people in the Italian towns, and there was nothing strange to him in the sight of men and women sitting at tables outside the cafÉs, or wandering up and down in the public promenades.

But he chattered in gay delight over the country sights. "See the haystacks!" he would cry, "and the golden pumpkins! and oh, the ears of yellow corn!"

A small flock of geese ran into the road, hissing at the big red automobile, and Rafael laughed gaily.

"You should not laugh at those geese," Edith reproved him. "No doubt they are descendants of the sacred geese that saved Rome." Then after a moment of silence, she added, "Saved Rome from what?"

"From the enemy," Rafael answered, with another laugh.

"I know that, of course," said Edith; "but Rome has had so many enemies that I can never keep the different ones separated in my mind."

Mrs. Sprague overheard the conversation, and said, "That is one reason why I brought you to Italy, Edith. I want you to understand all this Roman history, so that you will be able to pass your examinations when you return to school."

Rafael was interested to hear something about the American school examinations, and Edith told him of her troubles with history.

Then Rafael told of the difficulty he always had in remembering whether George Lincoln lived before Abraham Washington, or afterwards; and while Edith was explaining to him his mistake in the names, they arrived at one of the many olive-groves that dot the Tuscan hillsides.

"I think the vineyards are much prettier," said Edith. "But the twisted black trunks, and the gray branches of the olive trees are very picturesque," she added.

Boy-like, Rafael began at once to make friends with the farmer, and soon learned the whole process of crushing the oil from the ripe black fruit.

The farmer led them all to the sheds where the great stones were set up to crush the olives. He showed them just how the work was done, and then explained about the different grades of oil.

"We buy a great deal of your Italian oil in America," said Mrs. Sprague; and when Rafael had repeated this in Italian to the farmer, the man went into the house and soon returned with two bottles of his very best oil, which he presented to Edith and her mother.

"We Italians sell more oil than any other country," he said proudly to Rafael, "and we use a great quantity ourselves. It is much better than butter for cooking."

Then he showed them the barrels of mammoth green olives which he had sold on the trees to an American dealer the month before, and which were soon to be shipped to Genoa.

Mrs. Sprague looked at the setting sun, and advised that they hurry on to the next town, where they were to spend the night; and Rafael rejoiced once more in the speed of the automobile.

But Edith was tired, and was glad to reach a comfortable bed in Siena, and lay her head upon the pillow filled with live-geese feathers; after which she knew nothing more of Italy, until the next morning's sun wakened her, and she began another day's journey over the roads of Tuscany.