We keep the custom of celebrating Thanksgiving here in Provence where besides the vendages, the picking of grapes, no other harvest festivals are observed; each year we tell the story of the Mayflower, of Squanto and cranberries, squash, corn and beans.

Snow is announced so early in the year that no one believes it will happen. Curiously, in the very early morning, I open the curtain—nothing. I fall asleep again in the dark until rays of red-gold light wake me. Then I jump out of bed, dash to the window, and slide the long curtain aside.

half
a red
sun from the mountain's
snowy
peak