Despite the squalid clothes of the peasants, there are many picturesque aspects of rural life.  The driving of large herds of cattle by mounted men, armed with long goads, is an interesting as well as an artistic sight, and the same may be said of the primitive agricultural occupations.  The crops are harvested with a sickle, and you may wake up some morning to see the field opposite your house invaded by some twenty to thirty reapers, men and women, boys and girls, patiently sawing their way through the wheat or barley, or whatever it is.  The corn is threshed out with the flail, or trodden out by the oxen—­all operations fair to look upon.  Forms of cultivation interesting to watch are the very primitive ploughing, the hoeing of the maize, and all those connected with the culture of the vines and the orange and other fruit trees, and especially the irrigation, which is so important to these latter.  In fact, one of the most charming of rural sights is the old water-wheel, groaning and creaking as it is turned by the patient ox or mule or pony, splashing the cool water from the well out of its earthen pots—­each with a hole in the bottom—­and discharging it into the trough leading to the irrigation channels or to the reservoir from which the water may afterwards be let off in the required direction.

But agriculture is not always so backward and primitive.  There are great landowners and large farmers who use the newest and best agricultural implements.  The Government does what it can to encourage the use of artificial manures, and there are societies which render important services to agriculturists and to fruit-growers.  Amid such labours live the quiet country-folk.  They have no thought of anything; they have no special amusements beyond an occasional festa and a dance.  They sit round the village well in the evening, and when not talking scandal, tell stories about—­“Once upon a time there was a poor widow with one or more daughters,” or “There was once a king’s son”—­often a Moorish king.  The old well-known tales reappear, modified to the Portuguese character and morality.

The following is a story taken from Braga’s excellent book:  “There was, once upon a time, a poor widow that had only one daughter.  This girl, going out to bathe in the river with her companions on St. John’s eve, at the advice of one of her friends, placed her ear-rings on the top of a stone, lest she should lose them in the water.  While she was playing about in the river an old man passed along, who, seeing the ear-rings, took them and placed them in a leather bag he was carrying.  The poor child was much grieved at this, and ran after the old man, who consented to restore her belongings if she would search for them inside his sack.  This the girl did, and forthwith the artful old man closed the mouth of the bag and carried her off therein.  He subsequently told her that she must help him to gain a living, and that whenever he recited—­