doubtless a counterfeit presentment of the
grape-laden wains which moved in the season of vintage over the
Campagna. The results in both cases were the same, for the _vinho
verde_, a harsh but refreshing wine, made and drunk by the
country-people, is made in the same way and is probably identical with
that wherewith the Latin farmer slaked his thirst. The recipe may have
descended through Lusus, the companion of Bacchus, whom tradition names
as the father of the Lusitanian. Be that as it may, the Portuguese is
still favored of the wine-god. Wine flows for him even more freely than
water, which gift of Nature has to be dug for and sought far and wide.
He drinks the ruby liquid at home and carries it afield: he even shares
it with his horse, who sinks his nose, nothing loth, in its inviting
depths, and neither man nor beast shows any ill effects from this
indulgence.

[Illustration: A MADEIRA FISHERMAN.]

It is in the north-western corner of the country, in the Minho
province, that the highest rural prosperity is to be met with. This
little province, scarcely as large as the State of Delaware, but with
more than four times its population, has successfully solved the problem
of affording labor and sustenance in nearly equal shares to a large
number of inhabitants. Bonanza-farming is unheard of there. The high
perfection of its culture, which gives the whole province the trim,
thriving air of a well-kept garden, comes from individual labor minutely
bestowed on small surfaces. No mowing-, threshing- or other machines are
used. Instead of labor-saving, there is labor cheerfully expended--in
the place of the patent mower, a patient toiler (often of the fair sex),
armed with a short, curved reaping-hook. The very water, which flows
plentifully in fountains and channels, comes not direct from heaven
without the aid of man. It is coaxed down from the hills in tedious
miles of aqueduct or forced up from a great depth by a rustic
water-wheel worked by oxen, and is then distributed over the land.
Except for its aridity, the climate is kind to the small farmer: there
is no long inactivity forced upon him by a cold winter. A constant
succession of crops may be raised, and all through the year he works
cheerfully and industriously, finding his ten acres enough and his
curious broad hoe dexterously wielded the equivalent of shovel and
pickaxe. If ignorant of our inventions, he is intimately acquainted with
some American products. If