Whole fields have I seen of these giant plants, real armies of sun-shaped flowers, triumphantly yellow beneath the rays of the great light they so bravely mimic. But often it seems to me that ashamedly they turn their faces away, sadly aware that they are but a sorry imitation of the one whose name they bear. Oil is made out of the seeds of these flowers; therefore do the peasants cultivate them in such numbers.
Often beneath the shade of those giant plants have I seen peasants seated in circles round piles of maize, separating the fruit from the leaves. In dwarf pyramids of orange, the ripe cobs lie scattered about the wilting fields, their glorious colour attracting the eye from afar; often the women's kerchiefs are of the very same tint.
"A BARE FIELD WHERE THE SOLDIERS EXERCISED"
I love these flaming touches of colour amongst the arid immensities of reaped fields—lovingly the eye of the artist lingers to look at them, only unwillingly turning away.
A pretty sight is also that of the peasant meetings, either in large barns or courtyards, to unsheathe the grain of maize from its cob. These are occasions of great rejoicing, when the young folk flock together, when laughter and work mingle joyously, when long yarns are told and love-songs are sung. The old crones sit around spinning or weaving, their heads nodding together over delectable gossip, one eye upon the youths and maidens, who, dressed in their brightest, with a flaring flower stuck behind the ear, ogle each other, and joke and kiss and are happy.
The old gipsy "Lautar," or wander-minstrel, is never absent from these meetings. From somewhere he is sure to come limping along, shabby, disreputable, a sordid figure with his violin or his "cobsa" under his arm; but his music is wonderful, making all hearts laugh, or dance, or weep.
*
*—*