The Evening statesman. [volume] (Walla Walla, Wash.) 1903-1910, 1905-10-28
IN THE SPREEWALD.
A Pastoral Venice Within an Hours
Journey From Berlin.

A Pastoral Venice Within an Hours
Journey From Berlin.
If you tire Of the turmoil of Berlin
you can take fight to the Spreewald
and visit the last Of the Wends. Elk
press trains run in an hour to Lubbe-
nau, and there you are on the threshold
Of this pastoral Venice The Spree
valid was originally the Valid, or for
est, growing on islands in the river
Spree. In the sixth century the Wends
settled here, and priIneval forest has
almost entirely given place to broad
meadows and tiny villages connected
by multitudinous waterways. Although
the Spreewald is but about thirty-sev
en- miles long by one and half to four
and a half miles wide-11O,OOO acres
it is cut up by about 800 natural and
artificial water courses. Since there are
neither roads nor horses, these canals
are the highways of profit as Of pleas
ure, and the shallow, fat bottomed
boat, with the boatman standing at the
stern punting with his long oar shod
with a crescent of steel, horns down, is
the sole vehicle of transportation. The
peculiar nature Of this region has iso-
lated its Wendish folk and enabled
them to keep to a surprising degree
their language, customs and supersti-
tons.
The traveller sees most and best by
taking a Saturday morning train for
Lubbenau. He then has the whole day
for punting over to Burg, where he
spends the night at the little inn and
goes to 8 o'clock service at the church
this for the sake Of seeing bevy Of
the women in their picturesque cos
tume-and then punts back to Lubbe-
nau after dinner. Almost noiselessly
propelled, one glides for hours among
scenes Of quiet beauty, between long
stretches of waving grass, or, If after
the harvest, among golden stubble
fields, thickly studded with small ricks
of fine hay, soft and smooth as flax on
distaff. Clumps Of oaks, elms and
beeches, lines Of poplars and willows,
lend depth and perspective to the land
scape. Sometimes the canal banks are
hedged with red and white Towering
beans or are Overrun with luxuriant
squash vines, gay with their yellow
flowers and fruit Your boat slips into
a tiny village of quaint log houses, their
straw matched roofs f1ecked with green
and gray MOSES. Patches Of gaudy as
tiers and dahlias flaunt at every door.
AS you pass you see much Of the house
work going on at the waters edge. You
see a stocky, strong race Of women,
barefooted or wearing the homemade
wooden soled slippers, clothed In stout
dark cotton dresses and aprons, always
with the white headdress. Now wom
an is securing with a handful Of PUSHES
her brass and copper kettles or her
white oaken, brass bound churn; now
one is rinsing the family washing in
the stream.
Everywhere there is delicious still
ness; the most you hear is the whistle
whetting of a scythe or the faraway
stroke of the hour from the Lubbenau
church clock. Somewhere you meet the
postman going his rounds by boat, and
further, on the old woman who is bring
ing her boatful Of potatoes, cabbage,
beans and cucumbers out to Lubbenau
in order to exchange them for coffee
and coal. A long, low mass Of new
mown hay comes floating toward you,
but behind it is sturdy woman punt
ing it home. Her red skirt Is tucked up
over her dark blue petticoat, her white
linen headdress and the short white
sleeves of her guimpe intensity the
brown Of her sunburned face and arms
But here comes boat with more fes-
tive occupants, village beauty, white
as a swan in her fresh apron, necker-
chief and headdress, and for boatman
her lover in his best Sunday garb 1.-The
wedding must be near" your boatman
muses. aloud, ''for the banns were read
last Sunday