So they toil, and thrive, and bless God, under the glorious sun; and
as for rain--they have not had rain for these two months--(I speak of
April, 1864)--and, though the white limestone dust is ankle deep on
every road, say that they want none for two months more, thanks, it
is to be presumed, to their deep tillage, which puts the plant-roots
out of the reach of drought. In spring they feed their silkworms,
and wind their silk. In summer they reap their crops, and hang the
maize-heads from their rafters for their own winter food, while they
sell the wheat to the poor creatures, objects of their pity, who live
in towns, and are forced to eat white bread. From spring to autumn
they have fruit, and to spare, for themselves and for their
customers; and with the autumn comes the vintage, and all its classic
revelries. A happy folk--under a happy clime; which yet has its
drawbacks, like all climes on earth. Terrible thunderstorms sweep
over it, hail-laden, killing, battering, drowning, destroying in an
hour the labours of the year; and there are ugly mistral winds
likewise, of which it may be fairly said, that he who can face an
eight days' mistral, without finding his life a burden, must be
either a very valiant man, or have neither liver nor mucous membrane.
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