CASCIA
Instead of pulling down the stack as fodder is needed, the farmer sensibly slices off a bit at a time, exactly as a butter-and-egg man zips off butter from a mound with a bit of wire.
How lacking in exclamation points would be the Italian scene if it had neither cypresses nor cedars! They give a final, blue-black accent to the paysage. The modest little house on the outskirts of Castelfiorentino would not he arresting were it not for its dense bodyguard of slender cedars. I thought this town had the longest name in Italy until I began to pore over the map and found others which make this sound like a curt monosyllable. It was in a pastry shop in Castelfiorentino that a shy little salesgirl, with a flashing smile and enormous brown eyes, asked us to listen to her one English sentence, acquired by correspondence: “I
ave sweetheart in New York at cento venti otto stritt.”
One misses the combined use of many materials so prevalent in French farmhouses. There is no half timber work at all, of course, and only rarely does one find combinations of brick and stone. One such example roosts amid much prodigal vegetation in a luxuriant valley in the shadow of Perugia. This farm borders closely on the class of a small castello. It has two curious towers, dotted with chimneys. Stone, stucco and brick unite, under an aged patine, to give the walls of this old place a glorious texture.
The sprawling farm on the outskirts of Rimini is almost identical with hundreds of others which squat on the flat country along this shore of the Adriatic. Shelter from the merciless sun is afforded
OUTSKIRTS OF RIMINI
Instead of pulling down the stack as fodder is needed, the farmer sensibly slices off a bit at a time, exactly as a butter-and-egg man zips off butter from a mound with a bit of wire.
How lacking in exclamation points would be the Italian scene if it had neither cypresses nor cedars! They give a final, blue-black accent to the paysage. The modest little house on the outskirts of Castelfiorentino would not he arresting were it not for its dense bodyguard of slender cedars. I thought this town had the longest name in Italy until I began to pore over the map and found others which make this sound like a curt monosyllable. It was in a pastry shop in Castelfiorentino that a shy little salesgirl, with a flashing smile and enormous brown eyes, asked us to listen to her one English sentence, acquired by correspondence: “I
ave sweetheart in New York at cento venti otto stritt.”
One misses the combined use of many materials so prevalent in French farmhouses. There is no half timber work at all, of course, and only rarely does one find combinations of brick and stone. One such example roosts amid much prodigal vegetation in a luxuriant valley in the shadow of Perugia. This farm borders closely on the class of a small castello. It has two curious towers, dotted with chimneys. Stone, stucco and brick unite, under an aged patine, to give the walls of this old place a glorious texture.
The sprawling farm on the outskirts of Rimini is almost identical with hundreds of others which squat on the flat country along this shore of the Adriatic. Shelter from the merciless sun is afforded
OUTSKIRTS OF RIMINI