310 NATHANIEL SOUTHGATE SHALER 



leaves of the olive had been brightening their green. In the cold days of 

 January they looked very sere, but now they were getting the sap back ; 

 they were no longer curled and twisted by their emptiness, but were as full 

 of life as the plumage of a bird. At its best the foliage of the olive is 

 very beautiful ; the feathery, tufty masses scarcely dense enough to make 

 a shade have a certain domesticity and peacefulness of look I know in no 

 other tree. 



On the thinner upland regions the olive replaces the mulberry. It is 

 never trained, for it is not such a vegetable donkey as the mulberry, but must 

 follow its bent ; between these lines of trees the vines are planted. The work- 

 men are now at work, giving the twigs of the vine their appointed attitudes 

 in the branches. In the distance each of these binders of the vine looks like 

 one of Lord Monboddo's caudal men, for from his back depends a fringed 

 tail, which nearer inspection shows to be a bunch of willows for the work 

 of sustaining the vines. Wherever a stream makes the ground moist we 

 may see rows of willows, now very red, since the sap has given new life to 

 their bark ; each twig is as full-looking as a cow's udder. 



If we look closely at the structure of the great villas that dot the landscape 

 we can see that they are built for this peculiar agriculture; they have a vast 

 amount of open archways and finely ventilated lofts. I like these villas as 

 country places much more than the English country house. In the villa the 

 utilities, in its spacious clean courts, arched granges, and other offices, pass 

 by insensible gradations into the state and elegance of the mansion ; and, 

 above all, the dark loggia facing the north suggests this perennial freedom 

 of the outer air. Yet there is one sore need in this nearly perfect landscape. 

 For some time I was puzzled that amid so much beauty there should be 

 a strange sense of desolation. This is because there is never a trace of a beast 

 in the open air, save in labor. I have walked some hundreds of miles in Tus- 

 cany and have not yet seen a cow. Where the mothers of these stately oxen 

 live is more than I can imagine. There is none of that charming sense of 

 domesticity in country life that comes with the sight of the passive flocks 

 and green pastures. We do not know how much we miss in its loss until 

 in this country we find its value by its absence. There are no pasture fields 

 in Tuscany. Where Nature denies everything but a few tufts of grass among 

 the stones, the shepherd drives his sheep, which eat the little there is, and 

 move on; the sheep go like grasshoppers over the ground, there not being 

 enough to keep them still. Even the donkeys are more than usually cowed; 

 their bray is a melancholy sound, and though there may be a dozen of them 

 together they never join their voices. 



I find these high hills, with a russet undergrowth of bushy oaks that hold 

 their last year's leaves, and with their array of solitary pines, singularly 



