Only a step from its canals you wander through the silvery olive orchards of Provence, or climb the sweet lavenderscented hillsides, or follow a smooth, white road past an old red-roofed farmhouse, or a dark cypress grove, or a stone-pine standing solitary, or else a thick hedge of tall, waving reeds. And even while in the town, you cannot help seeing the country as you never do in Venice. As the fishermen drew up their nets on canal-banks there would come rattling by long Provencal carts, drawn by horses that wear the blue wool collar and high-pointed horn which makes them look like some domestic species of unicorn. Or in the cool of the summer evening, after the rest during the day's heat, a shepherd, crushing a sprig of lavender between his fingers as he walked, would drive his goats and sheep over the bridges, and start out for the long night's browse on the salt marshes by the lake, or on the sparse turf of the rocky hillsides ; or in the morning, just as the white-sailed boats were coming home, he would leave his flock huddled together on the church steps or in the little square.
Play in Provence
By Elizabeth Robins Pennell, Joseph Pennell

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