xi AMERICAN HOMES AND GARDENS November, 1912 
tt 
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AMERICAN LIBRARIES AND 
IMMIGRANTS 
O\ the American public library. strikes 
an immigrant, or at least how it struck 
one immigrant from Russia eager to enjoy 
the blessings of American citizenship,” says 
the Dial, “may be gathered from a passage 
in the penultimate chapter of Miss Mary 
Antin’s autobiography, parts of which have 
been appearing in the “Atlantic” as a pre- 
liminary to its recent publication in book 
form under the title of The Promised Land. 
Of the book-hungry little alien we read in 
her own glowing words: ‘Off toward the 
northwest, in the direction of Harvard 
Bridge, which some day I should cross on 
my way to Radcliffe College, was one of my 
favorite palaces, whither I resorted every 
day after school. A low, wide-spreading 
building with a dignified granite front it 
was, flanked on all sides by noble old 
churches, museums, and schoolhouses, har- 
moniously disposed around a spacious tri- 
angle called Copley Square. Two thorough- 
fares that came straight from the green 
suburbs swept by my palace, one on either 
side, converged at the apex of the triangle, 
and pointed off, across the Public Garden, 
across the historic Common, to the domed 
State House sitting on a height. It was my 
habit to go very slowly up the broad steps 
to the palace entrance, pleasing my eyes 
with the majestic lines of the building, and 
lingering to read again the carved inscrip- 
tions: Public Library—Built by the People 
Free to All. . . . Here is where I liked 
to remind myself of Polotzk, the better to 
vting out the wonder of my life. That I 
who was born in the prison of the Pale 
should roam at will in the land of freedom, 
was a marvel that it did me good to realize. 
That I who was brought up to my teens 
almost without a book should be set down in 
the midst of all the books that ever were 
written, was a miracle as great as any on 
record. That an outcast should become a 
privileged citizen, that a beggar should dwell 
in a palace—this was a romance more thrill- 
ing than poet ever sung. Surely I was 
rocked in an enchanted cradle.’ ven the 
world-weary and the blasé will catch some- 
thing of the enthusiasm, of the exultant joy 
of living, that breathes in every page of 
‘The Promised Land: 
ITALIAN FIG-GROWING 
HE season for gathering the figs in 
Italy,’ says a writer in the New 
York Sun, joins hands in October with the 
vintage; but it really begins in August, 
owing to a curious system of culture. Early 
in August the fig gatherers squirm through 
the twisting branches from tree-top to tree- 
top and “oil the fruit.” These fig people 
are nomadic; they appear and disappear 
like the wandering harvesters of France. 
Late in July the masserie are rented to 
them, a stated sum being paid to the pro- 
prietor, a payment that gives to the fig 
gatherers the right to all the fruit, begin- 
ning with the figs and ending with the last 
cluster of grapes. Rude huts thatched with 
straw are built by the proprietor in all his 
orchards, and in these the gypsy-like harv- 
esters live with their families. Sometimes 
they supplement their narrow quarters with 
a ragged tent. Three sticks placed cross- 
wise and a kettle in the crotch constitute 
the kitchen. Shortly after their arrival the 
work of forcing the fruit is begun. The 
methods. employed are curious. In one a 
wad of cotton is dipped in olive oil and 
gently rubbed on the flower end of the fig. 
Fig by fig is thus treated, and in eight days 
the fruit is ready for the market. a a 
