But the Alsatian wines are mostly made from compact bunches of little, white, sweet grapes, with irislike colors shading them richly. The inhabitants, holding their _pinard_ in great veneration, feel it a sacred duty to see that it is _good_. It is called colloquially “_thé d’Octobre_” (“October tea”) one of the officers told me, after the manner of the famous “_purée septembrale_” (“September purée”) of Rabelais, who, it appears, greatly appreciated the wines of these hillsides. But they are pitiless concerning poor wines, which they call “fiddlers’ wines,” or “_Sans-le-Sou_,” or “_gratte-gosier_” (“throat-scratcher”), and “_grimpe-muraille_” (“wall-climber”), as he who drinks them is apt to try that and other useless feats, instead of sitting and dreaming or joking and being happy. These bad wines are also known collectively and disdainfully as _vins des trois hommes_ (wines of three men) because it appears it takes three men to accomplish the feat of drinking a single glass—the man who supports the drinker, the man who forces the treacherous liquid down his throat, and the third the unhappy victim. Now the once rich soil of the ancient mellow vineyards has got thin and stony; for the men who have grown them have been occupied with killing these past four years, and neglect for even a season can spoil the best and oldest vines. In times of peace there are many textile manufactories in these valleys, too. After the Napoleonic wars _la main d’œuvre_ (labor) was scarce, just as it will be after our war, workmen being brought even from India, and to this day in the midst of modern machinery here, in the valley, there are places where they still keep to the ancient block system of stamping cloth, with the ritual hammer-stroke, this process giving more fadeless and beautiful colors than any machine-stamped, aniline-dyed stuffs that ever were. Such cloths are still called “_Indiennes_.”