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.