The age-herald., 1898-01-27
QUAINT BIT OF PROVENCE.
A Curious Little Town in the South of
 France.

From the New 1ork Times.
 Veaux is not one of the places that you find marked upon map of the world with a large black dot. But on map of this department of France, which is called Bou- ches du-Rhone, or Mouths of the Rhone, it can be found five six miles back from the shore of the Mediterranean, on q branch of the FILM. railway that cuts across from Rognac to Aix. About twen- ty-five miles west of Marseilles is large bay with very narrow entrance, an arm of the Mediterranean which the French government is talking of utilizing for navy yards and naval repair stations, and on the north shore of that bay Is Rognac From Rognac the branch train runs inland and soon enters a large, well-tilled valley, on the north side of which is high hill crowned by village and the remains of castle, both of which look old enough to have been built by the Romans; and that is Velaux.
 The train runs through the valley, and on alighting we had a mile to walk uphill, over a beautifully hard and smooth mac adamized road, between stone walls that are still in good repair, though evidently as old, in many cases, as the crumbling castle And this is Provence. The old folks call it so still, and cling to their own language, though other Frenchmen say 1t is only a dialect, and government has taken away even the name and divided the old territory into departments. The old in habitants, however, do not like this change; and not only do they still call themselves Provencals, but they dote upon two or three Provencal poets, who print their works in Provencal on one page and in French on the opposite; and they would see nothing either tempting or nourishing in a meal that was not prepared according to the rules of the Provencal cook book. I have learned in a very few days to hold a very high opinion of these old Provencal people, They kind, amiable, obiging, industrious, religious; and they cook like angels.
 We had hardly taken 100 steps in the big valley before I saw that there was some thing strange about 1t, but it was some time before I could make out what it was. Here were the familiar fields, just as we have seen them at home, some newly plowd, some in grass, many covered with olive and almond trees. Walls between the fields, some shade trees, good roads it might have been fertile valley in America by shutting one eye to the ancient town on the hilltop, for all but one inde- finable thing. And presently I discovered what that was-there were no houses among the farms. Here from my window on the hilltop I can count you every house in this valley that runs ten miles in one direction and two three in the other. There is the station, with a little inn beside it, both modern. Then comes a great stone affair with towers, that looks like an old castle, but is winemaking concern. Then there is a small house at the turn of the road, unoccupied, and just at the foot of the hill are two or three comparatively modern dwellings, one of which is MT. Blanc's summer residence. But those are all; here are 100 farms in sight and not a single farmhouse, and it is the want of them that gives the landscape its unfamil- far look.
 "That is a survival of ancient customs" MT. Blanc explains, when I ask about it. 'In old times the provinces were contin- ually at war, and farmer who lived in a detached farmhouse would have been an easy prey to the enemy. For their own protection and the safety of their stock they built their houses in a group, and so the villages were formed. They had far ther to go to their work, to be sure. but in case of attack they had better chance for defense. Now that there is no such danger the custom still survives, and throughout the south of France you al- ways find the farmers living in the neigh boring village"
 The wine place with the towers we could admire only from the outside as the olives and the breakfast were waiting. It was evidently built in such shape that 1t could be defended but in more recent times, large residence has been added at one side. Across the road were large vine- yards, and in the vintage season. am told you can go to the mill with a cask and buy the grape juice fresh from the press for five cents quart. There need be no question about its purity for you can stand there and see the grapes put in and catch the juice as it runs out. Later on, when the juice has turned into wine, 1t sells for eight or ten cents a quart. The common retail price of this ordinary table wine in Paris or Marseilles is twelve or fifteen cents quart.