rence, which has
long been as dependent upon its crop of tourists as a Dakota farmer is
upon his crop of wheat. The Cascine Gardens, in the old days one of
the gayest promenades in Europe, are as lonely as a cemetery. At those
hotels on the Lung' Arno, which remain open, the visitor can make his
own terms. The Via Tornabuoni is as quiet as a street in a country
town. The dealers in antiques, in souvenirs, in pictures, in marbles,
have most of them put up their shutters and disappeared, to return, no
doubt, in happier times.

There is in the Via Tornabuoni, midway between Giacosa's and the
American Consulate, an excellent barber shop. The owner, who learned
his trade in the United States, is the most skilful man with scissors
and razor that I know. His customers came from half the countries of
the globe.

"But they are all gone now," he told me sadly. "Some are fighting,
some have been killed, the others have gone back to their homes until
the war is over. Three years ago I had as nice a little business as a
man could ask for. To-day I do not make enough to pay my rent. But it
doesn't make much difference, for next month my class is called to
the colors, and in the spring my son, who will then be eighteen, will
also have to go."

No, they're not very enthusiastic over the war in Florence. But you
can't blame them, can you?

* * * * *

In none of the great cities known and loved by Americans has the war
wrought such startling changes as in Venice. Because it is a naval
base of the first importance, because it is almost within sight of the
Austrian coast, and therefore within easy striking distance of
Trieste, Fiume, and Pola, and because throughout Venetia Austrian
spies abound, Venice is a closed city. It reminded me of a beautiful
playhouse which had been closed for an indefinite period: the
fire-curtain lowered, the linen covers drawn over the seats, the
carpets rolled up, the scenery stored away, the great stage empty and
desolate. Gone are the lights, the music, the merriment which made
Venice one of the happiest and most care free of cities. Because of
the frequent air raids--Venice has been attacked from the sky nearly a
hundred times since the war began--the city is put to bed promptly at
nightfall. To show a light from a door or window after dark is to
invite a domiciliary visit from the police and, quite possibly, arrest
on the charge of attempting to communicate with the en