Stia is a picturesque city. Its market-place, set on rising ground, with houses jutting out from both sides, suggested the arrangements of scene decoration. Its ancient church is unattractive from outside, but beautiful within. Stia is a convenient centre for walks, but we thought badly of its _Albergo Alpina_, and would give the preference another time to the inn at Pratovecchio, the situation of which is quite as convenient. The Falterona is usually ascended from Stia, but the snow that had recently fallen made the ascent impossible. We were even prevented from penetrating to the fir woods which have been planted in honour of Dante near the sources of the Arno, a spot to which the expression “Capo d’Arno” is now currently applied. Our walks were limited to the valleys and the lower heights, but we thereby saw more of the people than we should have done otherwise. They were courteous and friendly and charmed us by their unaffected ways. In Dante’s ears the speech of the inhabitants of the Casentino sounded harsh and ugly; to us their Italian seemed correct and clear, and we were struck more than once by their conversational ease.
With pleasure we recalled a homestead on the road to San Godenzo, in which seemed to linger that unaffected rusticity of classic times which the Georgics of Virgil have preserved for us. We were sheltering from a shower in an outhouse when the woman of the farm came out and invited us in. We entered a long low room with a window at each end, the further one looking out into the distance of the hills. The room seemed dark at first, but as one’s power of vision readjusted itself to the mellow light, the wide hearth stood forth with its glowing embers with the children hanging round. Earthenware pots and plates shone bright from shelves against the wall; and the board and the benches, all rounded and polished with use, also caught the reflection from the glow. One of the children threw on some crackling sticks; two others, dark-haired and red-cheeked, came and clung about their mother. Rickety chairs were placed for us near the hearth, then the woman resumed her low seat and went on winding her yarn. In her rough homespun, with her little ones about her, she looked a picture of health and vigour. She readily talked of her home and the children’s varying ways, and of the mill at Stia to which she was sending the yarn which she had spun. Presently the husband too came in, a figure such as one associates with the hills, tall and well-made. He began cleaning his gun, and with the same friendliness talked of the hares he had shot, and of the sport still in store for him. They seemed a happy family, making us welcome with the simple dignity which is so marked a feature in the Italian peasant, and speeding us on our way with the wish that for our sake the weather might improve.