When, the next morning, Jose led Antonio through the garden and vineyard, crimson vine leaves and purple grapes were the only signs of autumn. The green of summer was fresh over everything else.

The granite gate-posts, which divided the front yard and flower garden from the fields, were almost buried in ferns and covered with ivy. In the garden blossomed roses, bright geraniums, asters, balsams, verbenas, salvias and dahlias. The Portuguese are great lovers of flowers. Their climate, where the temperature hardly ever goes below forty degrees, is favorable to the growing of all the flowers, as well as the trees and shrubs, of both temperate and tropical zones.

On the borders of the Almaidas' garden and fields, great palms and tall cedars of Lebanon stood side by side with orange, lemon, citron and fig-trees. Here and there was an olive-tree, with gray-green leaves.

"How beautiful the flowers are, Jose, and how the trees have grown!" Antonio breathed a happy sigh as he spoke. Many times in his absence these last four years his heart had cried out for the flowers and trees and the quiet happiness of his childhood home.

Jose darted off to the house with the large bouquet of flowers he had gathered for his father. As he ran back to Antonio, he called: "Come to the farm-yard. I want you to see our pretty, gentle cow, and the chickens and the pig."

At the right-hand side of the house was a good-sized farm-yard, kept more than ankle-deep in gorse and bracken litter. This yard was formed by one side of the house and by a small granite building which held the grape-vats. High over the yard hung grave-vines on strong wooden trellises. Here the cattle found shade and shelter in the heat of mid-summer. In Portugal, cattle are kept in the yards instead of being put out to pasture.

The dun-brown cow was indeed a gentle creature. She leaned her head to one side while Jose stroked her neck, and she looked at Antonio with friendly brown eyes. The chickens, in their corner coop, hurried forward, as if expecting food, so Jose ran outside the yard and pulled some handfuls of chickweed for them. The long, tall pig grunted a welcome, standing still to have his back scratched. The oxen turned restlessly, as if wondering why work was so late in beginning to-day.

Next the brothers visited the grape-vats. The wide, shallow tubs were full of trodden grapes. For several days Jose with Joanna, and Malfada to help sometimes, had carefully removed the green and decayed grapes from the huge purple clusters they had gathered, and had thrown the good grapes into the vats. Jose and the girls had trodden these grapes with their bare feet. Now the juice was running from the vats through the troughs and the strainers in rich crimson streams into caskets set upon slabs of granite outside. This is the way that port, the wine for which Portugal is famed, is made throughout the country.

Antonio stood looking out over the maize field and vineyard, of about an acre, beyond the flower gardens. It was surrounded by poplar trees. Upon the trees hung grape-vines, heavy with fruit.

"We must gather more grapes to-day, Jose. I will help, and together we will tread the wine-press." Antonio's quick eyes saw that only a small part of the grapes had been taken from the vines. They must make the most of the vineyard crop.

Beyond the grape-vats was the eira, or threshing-floor, made of granite slabs set close together, and beyond the eira, a small barn and storehouse.

The eira was well open to sun and wind. Piled high at one side were stacks of maize-stalks, full of unhusked ears. The farm-work was behindhand at this harvest time: it had been more than Jose and his two sisters could do. Yet they had bravely tried.

The oxen's inquiring looks had reminded Jose that the day's watering of the gardens and fields ought to begin.

"Let me take the oxen out to-day, Antonio, please," Jose said, when his brother would have gone ahead with the work. Jose knew that his part as leader would soon be ended. Hard as the care had been, he felt more than half sorry to give it up to Antonio.

The obedient oxen came forth under the yoke and the high, carved head-board. With the long ox-goad Jose guided them, Antonio following, to the wide terrace at the left side of the house, where a well was sunk into a deep spring, which had a supply of water that never failed. Jose fastened the oxen to the nora, the old-time water-wheel.

Round and round the oxen went, in a wide circle, under trellises covered with vines. Their moving carried power to an endless chain which was set a few feet apart with buckets. These buckets, sent dipping in turn down into the well, brought up water from its depths. Half of it was spilled by the way. But enough was saved to make a plentiful stream which flowed off to the thirsty gardens and fields below.

In this Portuguese part of Europe there is scarcely any rain from May to November. Therefore through the long dry season, watering is necessary to the growth of the crops and the vines. Irrigation by the water of springs brought down from the hill-tops to the farms on the way, is increasing every year. But many farmers, in remote places, like the Almaidas', still follow the two thousand year old custom of watering from a well by means of the oxen's turning of the endless chain.

"This is water enough for to-day," Jose said at last. "Will you drive the oxen to the yard? I must help Joanna." And off the boy ran.

Joanna, with a boat-shaped basket of clothes upon her head, had just gone to the stream beyond the barn, near the wood-lane entrance to the farm. She waded out into the stream, above her ankles, and took the clothes which Jose handed to her, washing out one piece after another in the running water.

When this task was done, busy Jose hurried back to join Antonio, who had begun to gather grapes. For an hour they worked, filling and emptying other boat-shaped baskets, till the sun was high overhead.

"We will tread the grapes toward night, Jose," Antonio said, when Joanna called them to dinner.

At the noon-day meal they ate brÔa—bread—dipped in olive oil, a little dried fish, oranges and figs.

After dinner, in the heat of the day, Antonio went out to a rocky corner of the farm and lay down in the cool shade. Jose brought along his engine and cars. It was the first chance he had found to-day to play with them. And until Antonio grew too sleepy, he told Jose about real trains and railroads.

Oh, it was good to be free, good to be in the shade of the trees, to look off over the hills and dream of the cities and the people beyond!

Antonio fell asleep, thinking these thoughts. When he awoke, Jose was drawing the train of cars by the pink string, back and forth. A far-away strain of music sounded upon the air.

"Have you learned yet to play the flute or violin, Jose?" Antonio asked.

"Yes, Antonio, I can play the violin a little."

"Run to the house, bring both violin and flute. You can play the one, and I will see if I have forgotten what I knew about the other."

Away sped Jose. Returning, he gave Antonio the flute, keeping the violin. Then for an hour the brothers played, not by note but by ear, the simple, sweet melodies of the country-side. The Portuguese people are lovers of music as of flowers. Each farmer, peasant, shepherd and charcoal-burner has his guitar or violin, his pipe or flute.

Jose's violin notes were true and liquid. The old violin—it had been his grandfather's—was rich-toned. Presently Antonio laid aside the flute and listened to the little brother's playing.