the full time of every member of
the families at this time. The threshing floor on which the operation
is conducted is twenty yards across, circular and laid with flat
stones. About sufficient sheaves to form half a dozen of our "stooks"
at home is evenly spread on the floor, while a pair of oxen draw a
sledge made of two stout boards, about 5 feet long, turned up at the
point, and studded most carefully with flints projecting fully half an
inch. The driver, who is usually a woman, stands on this and directs
the cattle round and round, prodding them freely with a goad. Some of
the larger floors have a second team: several I saw to-day consisting
of two donkeys and a pony. These were not muzzled like the oxen, they
had no sledge, their hoofs doing the work, and they were kept going
round at a good pace. The winnowing follows, after the whole is
reduced almost to snuff. This is carried out by throwing shovelfuls in
the air, the slight breeze we have to-day carrying the pounded straw
away and leaving the heavy grain.

Rosapool is off the beaten track and is not much spoiled by the
present influx of men. We managed to get a drink of excellent
beer--Pilsner, from Athens--the old fellow who served us explaining
that he had no right to let us have it, but as soon as a military
policeman who was standing at his door, moved on we were placed on
chairs at a small table and had our repast. We visited the church
which was not unlike the bigger one at Mudros. With her head on the
doorstep was a wizened old woman fast asleep, guarding three piles of
salt she had laid out to dry in the sun. She got on her haunches,
mumbled to us in a friendly way, and showed us how she worked her
spinning machine, which she had with her. This consisted of a pole
about 2 feet high, with a base which she clutched with her great,
coarse, bare toes, and as she teased out the wool from the bunch at
the top she twirled a short spindle with her right hand making a
remarkably even thread.

We next climbed a hill near this, which we found rough and rugged, as
every hill here is. It was scorched absolutely brown,
thistles--especially yellow-flowered ones--alone showing signs of life,
along with a pretty, dwarf Dianthus. The rocks are covered with an
orange-coloured lichen which gives them a warm colour. When lying on
the top I could almost imagine myself in Scotland, if I kept my eyes
above the villages and valleys, and viewed the hill-tops only. Away to
the