The Red Vineyard

There was one thing about the natives of Etaples that impressed me particularly, and that was the respect each artisan seemed to have for his work. In the little village were candle-makers, bakers, boot-makers, makers of brushes, etc., and all these workmen seemed to be interested in their work and to have a great respect for it. They worked slowly, patiently, and always thoroughly. I noticed the same spirit in the fields. Just beyond the hill and the giant windmill that overlooked the village, unfenced green fields sloped downward to green valleys, then up over the hills again. Through this open countryside wound the white roads of France; and always the great main roads were arched by ancient elms. Unlike England, not even a hedge divided the property of owners. Here every day crowds of farm laborers, mostly women and girls, came early to work. One noticed a total absence of all modern farm implements. The women still used the old-fashioned reaping hook that was used long before the coming of Christ. What they cut they bound carefully into tiny sheaves. The women, for the most part, were dressed as the woman in Millet’s picture, “The Angelus,” from hood to wooden shoes. Here, again, the work was done patiently, quietly, and thoroughly. The modern idea of saving labor seemed never to have come to them. Sometimes when not very busy I would take a walk through the long white roads, leading into a white-housed red-roofed village, the Norman tower of the little church piercing the tree-tops; then out again through more green unfenced fields to another little village two, or three, or sometimes four miles away.

Often while on these walks, I used to think of the rugged strength of these sturdy French peasants who went so steadily and quietly about their work. They were strongly built people, well developed, and their faces were deep red—I suppose from so much work out of doors.