"Up with it well,Up to the top;Up with it well,Up to the summit!"
"Up with it well,Up to the top;Up with it well,Up to the summit!"
Each line of the Italian words ended with a long "e-e-e," or an "o-o-o," and the American girl laughed at the strange song.
"It is just the time and place to paint a picture, or write a poem about the Venetian sunset," she said.
"It is so different here from what I had imagined it to be," she added. "I used to wonder what kept the sea from dashing against the walls of the houses, and beating down the doors."
"Then you knew nothing about the lidi which hold back the sea?" questioned the boy.
"No," replied the girl. "People who have been here speak only about the Grand Canal, and the Piazza of St. Mark, and the Bridge of Sighs."
She pointed out to her mother the long wharf which stretched along the opposite bank of the lagoon, and their hotel, which was farther up the canal. "There is plenty of space on the pavement near our hotel to spread a sail," she said, "and I thought there was never a spot to set foot in all the city, except in the squares."
The sight of the hotel reminded Mrs. Sprague of home. "We must go back and see if there are any letters," she said suddenly, and turned to go down the spiral staircase.
As they took their places in the boat, Edith said to Rafael, "Tell us some of your Venetian legends. Is there not one about this lagoon?"
"There are many," he answered, and he told her the story of the three saints—St. Mark, St. George, and St. Theodore—who crossed the lagoon one night, centuries ago, and drove back the evil spirits who would have destroyed the city.
"Our boatmen can tell you of many other strange things which have happened on these canals," he concluded, as they reached the steps in front of the hotel.
Edith ran in, and soon returned with several letters for her mother and herself, which they began reading while Rafael poled slowly back into the canal.
"Listen to this," exclaimed Mrs. Sprague suddenly. "Tom tells me to go to Verona, where his chauffeur is waiting with the automobile, and take it to Florence for him."
"I don't like to leave Venice just as we havebegun to enjoy it," said Edith. Then seeing that Rafael looked wonderingly at them, she added, "Tom is my cousin, who is seeing Italy with his friend in an automobile. He said it would take too long to see it with Mother and me."
But Mrs. Sprague began reading aloud,—"We shall be gone into Austria for more than a month, and I know you will enjoy a ride through the Italian country."
Looking up from the letter, she said, "We will go to-morrow."
"How shall we find the chauffeur?" asked Edith.
"He is at the 'Hotel of the Golden Dove,'" said Mrs. Sprague. "There will be no trouble in finding him."
"I prefer the winged lions of Venice to the golden dove of Verona," said Edith, looking up at the column in the Piazzetta.
"You will find a stone lion in the forum in Verona," said the boy.
"In the forum!" exclaimed Edith, "that sounds like Rome."
"Yes," said the boy rather proudly, "there is also an old forum in Verona, but it is used now as a vegetable market. You can take a picture of it with your camera."
"Perhaps I may," answered the girl; "but I shall first take one of Juliet's balcony."
Rafael laughed. It seemed that he, too, had read "Romeo and Juliet," for he said, "You will be much disappointed in that balcony."
"Why so?" asked the girl, with a look of surprise.
"Because the house is not a fine one. It is in a block of tall narrow houses. The street leads from the market-place and is so narrow that the tram-car almost rubs against one's knees.
"Romeo had trouble enough, if he climbed to that balcony," he added. "It is five stories above the sidewalk, and is hardly big enough for a man to stand in."
"Perhaps Juliet's balcony overlooked the courtyard," Mrs. Sprague suggested.
"As for the courtyard, that was full of worn-out carriages when I saw it," Rafael answered, "It was not a good place for a lover to hide."
"I don't want to go to Verona and have all my dreams shattered," mourned the girl. "Shall I be disappointed in Juliet's tomb, too?"
The boy laughed again. "You can pick an ivy leaf from the plant near-by. Is not that what your country-women do?" he asked.
Edith tossed her head. "Of course," she answered. "I have a large collection of ivy leaves myself,—one from every castle in England and Ireland."
The boy looked mischievous. "One from Juliet's tomb will be most precious of all," he told her, "because ivy grows not so easily in Italy as in England."
"Is there anything else to be seen in Verona?" asked Mrs. Sprague.
"There is a colosseum in Verona which is second only to the one in Rome, Signora," Rafael replied.
But Edith shook her head. "That cannot be," she said. "We have one in the United States which we think is next to the Roman one in importance."
It was the boy's turn to show surprise. "How can that be?" he asked quickly. "The one in Verona is very old, and has seen many exciting battles between gladiators."
"Well," persisted the girl, "our stadium in Cambridge, where the men of Harvard University fight their foot-ball battles with men of other colleges, has seen just as interesting contests as any colosseum in Europe. Thousands and thousands of people have cheered the victors in our country as well as yours," and Edith's cheeks flushed, as she thought of some of the stirring foot-ball games which she had witnessed.
The boy looked at her in amazement. "I did not know that you ever saw such inspiring sights in your country," he said humbly.
"Indeed we do," said Edith, glad to see that Rafael was impressed.
"How long will it take to reach Verona from Venice?" asked Mrs. Sprague.
"If you leave here at the fifteen hours, you will arrive before sunset," he answered.
"At the fifteen hours," repeated Edith with a laugh. "What a funny way to say three o'clock. Your way of counting time up to the twenty-four hours is the queerest thing in Italy."
"It seems the most natural thing in the world to me," said her mother. "There are twenty-four hours in the day. Why should we not name each one?"
Then she arranged that Rafael should take them to the station in his boat, on the next day, at the fifteen hours.
Hotel New York, Florence, Italy.
October 10, 19—.
To Signor Rafael Valla,
My dear Sir:—Can you leave your tops for a few moments and read a letter from your American friends, the Spragues?
Although we have been in Florence for more than a month, we have not yet forgotten our visit in Venice and our journey to Verona. We sat by the right-hand window in the train, as you told us to do; but I looked often across the way to see what could take place on the opposite side. Once I saw some storks that had flown down from Strassburg and were standing on their long legs in the marshes.
But our side of the train was truly the more pleasant one. There were grape-vines and mulberry trees and wheat-fields; and also cypress trees, which you did not mention, but which we were glad to see. Then there were big fields of watermelons ripening in the sun, and women gathering themin baskets which they carried on their heads across the fields.
In Verona we went to see the play in the colosseum by moonlight. I have never seen such a performance in our stadium at Harvard, and you have a right to be proud of the great colosseum.
There were four hundred performers on the stage at one time, and the play ended at "the twenty-three hours" with a gunpowder explosion that destroyed the fort,—the play fort, I mean.
And we looked at the tombs of the Scaligers, although I don't know any good reason for doing so; and then we came through the most beautiful country to Florence.
Men and women, dressed in gayest colors, were reaping with sickles in the wheat-fields. The grain was truly "golden grain," and there was never a foot of ground anywhere, whether the grain was standing or had fallen, without a flaming scarlet poppy. And every hill was green with trees and crowned with a castle or a tower.
We rode through miles and miles of vineyards, all arranged in pictures, for our benefit, as it seemed. The vines hung in festoons from long rows of mulberry trees. The trees were planted in rows that crossed one another, forming hollow squares, and the square spaces were filled with the scarlet poppies and the golden grain.
The trees grew so regularly, and the vines hung so gracefully—a single vine running from tree to tree—that we could not take our eyes from the lovely sight; and we have promised ourselves to see the gathering of the grapes, on our way from Florence to Rome.
At the toll-gate we found that we could not enter Florence until after our automobile and all our luggage had been examined. The officers seemed to fear that we were trying to smuggle something to eat, either fruit or vegetables, into the city.
It was in the midst of a thunder-storm; and not until the official was convinced that we were quite wet, and wished to enter in order to find shelter, and that we were truly a foreign lady and her daughter, on a sight-seeing tour, did he let us pass through the gates and enter the city.
And now, after our month's visit, I have a Florentine mosaic to take to America with my Venetian necklace.
The golden background of my mosaic is another sunset; one which we saw from the Shepherd's Tower, with the sky a rosy-pink, the River Arno taking its slow course through the city and reflecting the rosy light, and the surrounding hills all deep blue and amethyst.
The most precious stone of my mosaic is the glorious statue of David, on the heights of SanMiniato. Perhaps, if Michael Angelo could have known, four hundred years ago, that I was going to have one minute of such very great happiness as when I first saw his work, he would have been very glad.
What a splendid fashion the Italians have of placing beautiful statues out of doors where everyone may see and admire them often! In America we crowd them all together in museums and charge an admission fee, so that one sees them but seldom, if at all.
There are many stones in my mosaic. Florence is well called the "City of Flowers." One sees flower-girls everywhere, and little Bianca, with the tanned face and the big black eyes, who comes to our door every morning with the sweetest and freshest of roses, is one of my friends.
Every Friday we have been to the market-place to see the peasants, who come in from the surrounding hillsides with loads of peaches, figs, grapes, pumpkins, watermelons, squashes,—all kinds of beautiful fruits and vegetables.
But I like best the boys who carry trays of plaster images which have been made in their little villages up among the mountains, and which they bring here just as they sometimes take them to America.
We saw also the straw market, and the womenbraiding the straw and making hats. You shall see the one which Mother bought for me, and which I wear every day.
And this brings me to the reason for writing you this letter. We are going to leave the music of the churches, the pictures, the sculptures, the peasants and the market-place, and go into the country to see the harvests.
I shall miss hearing the constant ringing of the church bells, and seeing the squads of soldiers marching to the sound of military music. And perhaps I shall never again sleep in a room with barred windows overlooking the blue waters of an Italian river, and look through those same bars into the faces of sweet nuns and shaven monks as they pass on the sidewalk outside.
But we can have the automobile only a few days longer, and it is our great wish that you join us in Florence and take the trip with us to Rome.
Then if you will but stay with us for a few weeks in Rome, we shall not get lost again because of being unable to speak Italian. Mother says that you will be tongue and eyes for us.
Your American friend,
Edith Sprague.
It was a long letter. Rafael read it aloud to his mother, and at the end he spoke without looking up at her.
"May I go?" he asked simply.
She did not answer for several moments, and he spoke again. "I know so little of Italy, outside of Venice," he urged. "Those Americans go everywhere and see the whole world."
"That is true," his mother answered, "and you may never have such another opportunity to see the Eternal City. You may go," she added finally, to Rafael's great delight.
"That is good! I will start as soon as you can pack some clothes for me," he cried. He half thought she would go at once to pack them, but she sat still, and began to talk about her girlhood.
"I was born near the hotel where your friend is living," she said, "and know every foot of ground in Florence. It is a pity you are not going to be there on Holy Saturday, the day before Easter. Then you would see a sight that is seen nowhere outside of Florence."
"Tell me about it," said the boy.
"It is called the 'Burning of the Car,'" she told him. "Back in the time of the Crusaders, one of the men of old Florence who went to Jerusalem brought from the Holy Sepulchre two pieces of the stone, and also a torch lighted from the holy light that has been kept burning there since the time Christ was crucified.
"In order that the wind might not blow out his light, he rode the whole distance back to Florence with his face toward Jerusalem.
"The people of the cities through which he passed thought that this man who was riding backwards must be crazy, and they cried out after him, 'Pazzi! Pazzi!' which means mad-man. Finally he was called by the name of Pazzi, and was the founder of the Pazzi family, which to this day shares with the government the expense of burning the car at Easter time.
"The light and the two pieces of the stone sepulchre are treasured in the oldest church in Florence. They are taken out once every year, and the people are allowed to look at them, and are also permitted to light their candles at the sacred flame. They count that a great blessing.
"The burning of the car is an interesting ceremony, and thousands of people come from far and near to see it. Two yoke of pure white Tuscanoxen are chosen to pull the car into the Piazza del Duomo for the burning; and proud is that peasant whose oxen are chosen for the ceremony.
"They are driven into the city on the night of Good Friday when everything is very still, and are taken early the next morning to the enormous barn where the great car is kept.
"The car is built of wood and is hung with festoons of colored paper and garlands of flowers. Fireworks of many kinds are hidden among the flowers and paper,—some which make loud noises, and others which burn with a bright light.
"The oxen are harnessed to the car and draw it slowly through the street to its place in the square in front of the cathedral,—'the very great heart of Florence.' A wire is then stretched from the high altar of the cathedral to the car in the square, and everything is in readiness.
"In the meantime a priest takes the holy light, very early on Saturday morning, and walks with it to the cathedral, lighting the candles of the people as he goes. On either side he is accompanied by a servant in livery from the house of Pazzi.
"Crowds of men, women and children, dressed in holiday attire, collect in the square in front of the cathedral, and there is a babble of voices, with much merriment and laughter.
"Just before the hour of noon a great silencefalls upon the crowd, and the priests begin the Mass. At the moment when the 'Gloria in Excelsis' is reached, the Archbishop places a lighted taper in the bill of an artificial dove, and sends the dove down the wire to the car. Then all the bells in the city begin to ring.
"Down to the car flies the dove, and the taper in its bill sets fire to the fireworks. Then it flies back to the high altar, and if the trip is successful and the fireworks go off with a great burning and banging, there is rejoicing among the crowds in the square, for it means that the autumn harvests will be plentiful.
"Then the prize oxen, all beautifully decorated with garlands, and with blankets embroidered with the arms of the Pazzi family, are again harnessed to the car; it is refilled with fireworks, and the burning is repeated in the square Victor Emanuele, near the Pazzi palace.
"And afterwards all the men buy new hats, and wear them home in honor of the event.
"I have heard that it rained last Easter-time, and that the burning was not so good as usual," she said with a smile, "perhaps your friends will not find plentiful harvests."
Rafael smiled in answer, and looked at Edith's letter, where his eyes fell upon her words about the tomb of the Scaligers.
"Why do foreigners always find it hard to understand our Italian history?" he asked.
"Because for many centuries Italy was made up of small states, each one governed by a different ruler,—sometimes a family, and sometimes a Doge, as here in Venice. The Scaligers were a famous family which ruled Verona for many years during the middle ages.
"When I was a girl, Cavour, one of Italy's greatest statesmen, brought about the unification of the many states into one kingdom under one king, and since then our people have become happier and more prosperous. Italy is now one of the important nations in Europe."
She would have said more, but Rafael was tired of listening to the stories of the past, and wished to plan for his journey.
"I must get ready to go to Florence at once," he said.
"It cannot be done in one day," replied his mother. "Write to your friends that you will come on Thursday."
So on Thursday he bade his mother good-bye and started on his journey. He was taken to the station in his little boat, poled by his friend Nicolo; and his last words to Nicolo as he left the boat were, "I am so glad to go!"
To Madre Mia in Venice:—
I am still glad! Yet it would not be so if you were not also glad for me.
It was the joy of the morning to find a letter from you to-day. Two letters have I now had in my life, and both from Italy. I had thought we Italians had letters from nobody but "friends in America," as Paolo, the fruit-man, always says.
And you say that Nicolo wishes to buy my boat; and that he will pay for it after he has carried many passengers under the three bridges of the Grand Canal, and to the Lido.
Well, say to him that I cannot sell my boat. Did I not make it myself, from an old fisherman's boat, with only a little help from Carlo, in his workshop on the canal of the chestnut trees? And of a truth I will not sell it to Nicolo. But I shall give it to him for his birthday gift, if in return he will carry old Grandmother Nanna every Sunday morning toearly Mass, so that she will not miss it because I am no longer there.
I shall never want the boat again, because I am going to become a citizen of Florence.
It is true that we leave to-day for our automobile ride to Rome, but I shall come back again. That is what everyone does who has once been here.
Why did you not tell me about the Palazzo Vecchio with the wonderful statues in the Loggia? Did you think that because we have so much beauty in our old Venice I should care for none elsewhere?
And the pictures in the Pitti and the Uffizi palaces,—you should have warned me that I would wear my eyes out with much looking at them! And it is one thing to hear of Michael Angelo, and quite another to see his great works!
The American lady, Mrs. Sprague, with her guide-book, follows the English-speaking guide about, and continually interrupts him to ask, "At what page have we arrived now?"
But her daughter is different. She carries no guide-book. She has a boy's mind and asks questions about everything. She asked me about the tunnels through which my train came from Venice. Ah, those tunnels! There were twenty-two of them in sixteen miles, and the train whizzed in and out in the most exciting manner.
More I cannot say, but that I am perfectly happy! And I shall sign my name Benvenuto, because the American girl says I am welcome.
A thousand greetings to you, from your absent crab of a boy in Florence,
Rafael Valla.
During that wonderful automobile ride from Florence to Rome, Rafael was glad that his mother had told him so many stories of her native city. There was pointed out to him on one of the Tuscan hills not far from Florence, the same yoke of oxen that had drawn the car through the city streets on the previous Easter, and he was able to tell Edith the whole story of the "Burning of the Car."
The chauffeur, under Mrs. Sprague's directions, took them off the highway and close to the oxen and their driver. The horns of the oxen were decorated with garlands of flowers and gay paper streamers, because they were again to take part in a festival,—the festival of the vintage; and on the drag behind them rested a great tun for the wine.
Rafael spoke to the smiling contadino and asked if they might follow him to the harvest.
"Not follow," he answered; "the oxen move but slowly, and must first drag the tun to the wine-cellar at the farm-house. But you may lead," he added. "It is a straight road along the base of thehill and across the brook, to the gate of the vineyard."
So they sped along in the automobile, and soon reached the busiest, merriest place that Edith had ever seen. Men and women, boys and girls, all dressed in the brightest, gayest colors, were cutting grapes from the vines which hung in long festoons from tall trees. They were constantly coming and going, with full baskets or empty ones, and some of the boys had climbed ladders to pick the grapes from the tree-tops.
There was much shouting and laughter, with happy calls to one another about the number of baskets of grapes each had picked, and the number of lire the work would bring.
"See how carefully that boy is cutting the grapes from the vines," observed Edith, pointing to a lad about Rafael's age, who sang as he worked, and who lifted the luscious, purple clusters of fruit into his basket as lovingly as if they could feel the touch of his hand.
Mrs. Sprague called attention to some of the vines, which had already been stripped of leaves as well as fruit.
"Why do they pick the leaves also?" she had Rafael ask one of the men.
He answered that the grapes grew so thickly that it was necessary to pick off the leaves in order thatthe fruit might get the full benefit of the sun. "There is much to do for the grapes before they can be picked," he added. "We must see to it that neither hail nor wind spoils the clusters before the vintage."
Then he explained that the grapes would soon be taken to the house and poured into great vats, where they would be made into wine.
Before Edith could ask about this process, Rafael shouted, "The oxen! Here come the oxen!" and she turned to see the gaily decorated, white oxen moving slowly across the field, drawing a big wagon.
The driver led the oxen to the farther end of the vineyard, and the boys and girls climbed upon the wagon with their baskets, and were carried under the festoons of vines, picking clusters of grapes here and there as they rode slowly along.
"I should like to help pick the grapes," said Edith wistfully, as she watched the merry pickers at their task.
Rafael asked one of the men if she might be allowed to do so. He smiled and nodded, pointing to an empty basket on the ground, and soon the two children were filling it together, and laughing and shouting with the others.
"This is like a moving picture," Edith said to Rafael, when at last their basket was filled andthey had climbed into the ox-cart to ride with the overflowing baskets and grape-stained children to the farm-house.
As they passed under the vines, Edith cut off some of the trailing ends and made crowns for the bareheaded, black-haired peasant girls, and one of them, more daring than the others, crowned Edith's own black hair.
Mrs. Sprague had already found her way to the house, and to the heart of the farmer's wife, by admiring the little baby that lay sleeping in its cradle under a fig tree near-by.
The baby was wrapped in a swaddling band, a piece of linen four or five yards long, which is wound round and round the tiny body, beginning just under the arms and ending at the toes. It is a curious fashion the Italians have of dressing their babies, and has been followed ever since the Mother Mary wrapped the infant Jesus in a swaddling band, so many hundred years ago.
"Pretty bambino," Mrs. Sprague had said, pointing to the baby, and the mother had found a hundred things to say in reply, in her voluble Italian fashion, not one word of which Mrs. Sprague could understand.
The farmer's wife was still talking when the vintage procession swung into the yard, the boys and girls lifting their voices in a festival song andkeeping time to the swinging of the horns of the great white oxen.
Then there was the merry confusion of emptying the grapes into the huge vats, and the choosing of certain men and maidens to trample out the purple juice.
Two or three always stand together in a single vat and press the grapes with their bare feet, thus forcing out the juice, which runs through an opening in the base of the vat into a wooden bucket.
Some of the farmers use a machine to press the grapes, but many think it should be done, as it was in old Bible times, with the human foot. It seems that the feet know how to avoid crushing the seeds and the skins, as a machine cannot know.
Rafael asked to be allowed to press the grapes in one of the vats, and after permission had been given him, Edith suddenly asked to do it also.
The farmer shook his head doubtfully. "It is very hard work," he objected.
Edith bade Rafael say that she was an American girl, and not afraid of hard work, and at last she was permitted to stand with the Italian boy in the vat and tread until she grew tired.
However, to stand in the midst of juicy grapes means to spoil one's clothes, so the farmer's wife took Edith and Rafael into the house and dressed them like peasant children.
There was much laughing and shouting from the other boys and girls over the sight of the two strange wine-treaders, and it reminded Edith of something. "Doesn't the Bible speak of the singing and laughing that go with the vintage?" she asked her mother.
"Yes," answered Mrs. Sprague, "there are many references in the Bible to the vineyard and the vintage; and also to the fig trees, which seem always to be planted in the vineyard."
"When I was learning in my Sunday-school lessons about the vine and the fig tree, I never dreamed that some day I should be eating grapes and ripe figs, and treading in the wine-press, as they did in olden times," said Edith.
"It will be the best wine in the whole country," said the farmer, when at last Edith was lifted out, her feet crimson with the blood of the grapes.
"I must see where they put it," she said, and followed to the dark wine-cellar, where the grape juice was poured into a tank and left to ferment.
It was late in the afternoon when they were once more in readiness to continue their journey toward Rome. The farmer's wife, who had told them all her family history, in Italian, would have been glad to keep them over night, but Mrs. Sprague shook her head.
"Tell her that the bambino is very cunning," shesaid to Rafael, "but we must be far along on our journey to-night."
Rafael's heart sang again, "I am so glad to go!" Every moment spent in the automobile was one of joy to him. He barely noticed the queer old streets and ancient buildings of the towns through which they passed. He cared more for the rapid motion of the car, and the sensation of flying through the air; and besides, he knew well the customs of the people in the Italian towns, and there was nothing strange to him in the sight of men and women sitting at tables outside the cafés, or wandering up and down in the public promenades.
But he chattered in gay delight over the country sights. "See the haystacks!" he would cry, "and the golden pumpkins! and oh, the ears of yellow corn!"
A small flock of geese ran into the road, hissing at the big red automobile, and Rafael laughed gaily.
"You should not laugh at those geese," Edith reproved him. "No doubt they are descendants of the sacred geese that saved Rome." Then after a moment of silence, she added, "Saved Rome from what?"
"From the enemy," Rafael answered, with another laugh.
"I know that, of course," said Edith; "but Rome has had so many enemies that I can never keep the different ones separated in my mind."
Mrs. Sprague overheard the conversation, and said, "That is one reason why I brought you to Italy, Edith. I want you to understand all this Roman history, so that you will be able to pass your examinations when you return to school."
Rafael was interested to hear something about the American school examinations, and Edith told him of her troubles with history.
Then Rafael told of the difficulty he always had in remembering whether George Lincoln lived before Abraham Washington, or afterwards; and while Edith was explaining to him his mistake in the names, they arrived at one of the many olive-groves that dot the Tuscan hillsides.
"I think the vineyards are much prettier," said Edith. "But the twisted black trunks, and the gray branches of the olive trees are very picturesque," she added.
Boy-like, Rafael began at once to make friends with the farmer, and soon learned the whole process of crushing the oil from the ripe black fruit.
The farmer led them all to the sheds where the great stones were set up to crush the olives. He showed them just how the work was done, and then explained about the different grades of oil.
"We buy a great deal of your Italian oil in America," said Mrs. Sprague; and when Rafael had repeated this in Italian to the farmer, the man went into the house and soon returned with two bottles of his very best oil, which he presented to Edith and her mother.
"We Italians sell more oil than any other country," he said proudly to Rafael, "and we use a great quantity ourselves. It is much better than butter for cooking."
Then he showed them the barrels of mammoth green olives which he had sold on the trees to an American dealer the month before, and which were soon to be shipped to Genoa.
Mrs. Sprague looked at the setting sun, and advised that they hurry on to the next town, where they were to spend the night; and Rafael rejoiced once more in the speed of the automobile.
But Edith was tired, and was glad to reach a comfortable bed in Siena, and lay her head upon the pillow filled with live-geese feathers; after which she knew nothing more of Italy, until the next morning's sun wakened her, and she began another day's journey over the roads of Tuscany.
"All roads lead to Rome!" called Edith, from her seat in the automobile, to Rafael in the door of the inn. The boy gave her a merry salute in answer, and climbed to his place by her side.
It was a lovely morning, and every peasant they passed waved a hand in friendly greeting to the two happy young people, while Mrs. Sprague leaned back and listened to their merry chatter, which never stopped through the long hours.
Rafael was constantly calling Edith's attention to this thing or that,—to the gray oxen, to the flocks of sheep, to the donkey carts which they passed. At last Edith said, "Rafael, why do you look always at the road? Why don't you look instead of those distant mountains, with the castles and monasteries crowning their peaks?"
Rafael looked somewhat bewildered. "These animals are all so foreign-looking to me," he said gently; "and it is a new thing for me to see men digging in the fields, and women picking leaves from the trees."
"Why, of course!" said Edith, remembering that Rafael was used to canals instead of roads, and the changing waters of a lagoon rather than green meadows. "It is a new sight to me, as well," she added, "that of women picking the mulberry leaves to feed to silkworms. We have few silkworms in our country.
"But neither do we have mountains crowned with castles. When I go home, I shall have to imagine that the hotel on top of Mt. Washington is a haunted monastery crowning the summit of a lofty peak."
Although Rafael knew nothing about Mt. Washington and the hotel on its top, he did know that Edith was a bright, observant girl who liked a touch of the ideal, so he asked, "Do you know about the Marathon runs of ancient Greece?"
"Yes, indeed!" she answered. "We have them now once a year at my own home in the United States, and there is great excitement over the winning of the twenty-six mile run."
Rafael shook his head in mock discouragement. "There is nothing in Europe which you have not also in the United States,—except age," he added.
"And history," said Edith.
"Yes, history," the boy repeated. "I like our history." Then he laughed and said drolly, "You may have all the history you like from my mother.She says it is better than salt. My own head is filled to bursting with all the stories she has told me of the men of olden times; of their wars and victories, their triumphs and their games. Why can we not call this ride to Rome a Marathon run?"
"A Marathon run! What fun!" exclaimed the girl. "How far away is Rome?"
"More than a hundred miles," he said. "Do you suppose we could possibly reach the site of the Golden Milestone before sunset?"
Edith's eyes sparkled at the thought, and she leaned forward to speak to the chauffeur. "Is the machine running well?" she asked. "Can we travel one hundred miles to-day?"
The man shook his head doubtfully. "There are mountains between here and Rome," he answered, "and it is not well to push the car too hard."
Edith looked at Rafael imploringly. "You are a man; can you not persuade him?" she asked under her breath.
The boy was pleased to be called a man; but as he was in truth a gallant Italian lad, he said courteously, "It is for you to persuade."
Then to the chauffeur he said, "Please stop for a moment at the first olive-garden."
"What are you going to do?" asked Edith curiously.
"Make it easy for you to persuade," he answered; and as the car stopped he jumped out, sprang to the top of the wall, broke off a branch of beautiful, silvery-green leaves, and presented it to Edith with a graceful bow.
"What can you make with the leaves?" he asked with a smile.
Edith looked at the branch thoughtfully for a moment.
"I know," she cried, "the victor's crown of olives!" and she clapped her hands together with delight. "See," she said to the chauffeur, "if you will reach the Golden Milestone in Rome by sunset, you shall have a crown of olive leaves."
She said it hesitatingly. The chauffeur was a quiet, business-like man, and Edith, with a child's judgment, supposed him to be too old to feel a single thrill of ambition.
Perhaps he was. Perhaps it was only the desire to give pleasure to the American girl that moved him to smile faintly and say, "Well! Well! We will see what our car can do; but it is not at all likely that we shall see Rome this night."
However, he began at once to increase the speed, carefully to be sure, but with purpose.
Edith turned to the task of plaiting a wreath of leaves. As her fingers twisted and arranged them to make the most of their dull green uppersurfaces, she asked Rafael, "What of this Golden Milestone? I have never heard of it."
"It was a gilded stone set up in the old Roman Forum by the Emperor Augustus," Rafael replied. "He wished to make of the city a great trading center; and so he built many roads radiating from the Forum to all parts of ancient Italy. The distances of all the principal towns, measured from the city gates, were recorded on the golden stone. Although it is no longer there, its place is marked."
Edith was disappointed. "I thought I was going to see it," she said, twisting a leaf to show its gray under-side.
"There are so many other ruins from the days, of ancient Rome, that you will never miss the milestone," Rafael assured her.
"How do you know?" she asked.
"My mother has told me about them," he answered. "It was only by word of mouth that much of the earliest history of the world was made known, and I have learned it in the same way."
"It may not be the most 'up-to-date' fashion," said the girl, "but it is certainly more interesting. I wish you would try it now, and tell me something about the Eternal City."
The young Italian boy, who was making his first journey into the heart of his native land, felt his own heart expand with joy as he looked across thebeautiful valleys to the distant blue mountains for inspiration.
"It was many hundred years before the birth of Christ that people first came into Italy," he said. "My mother told me that they wandered over here from Central Asia in search of good pastures for their flocks, but it was so many centuries ago that very little is known about them."
Edith pointed to a roughly thatched hut in a distant field, and asked, "Do you suppose they lived in huts like that?"
"Not at first," the boy answered. "It was a long time before they built even such good huts as that one. It was only little by little that they learned to clear the ground and cultivate it with rude tools; to make dishes out of clay and cook their food; to spin and weave the wool from their sheep, and to live under shelter.
"At first each family lived by itself, but after a time they began to form tribes and choose the strongest and bravest of their number for a chief. This chief governed them in times of peace and led them in their wars with other tribes, becoming their leader or king.
"There were many such tribes in Italy, and for centuries they lived here, waging constant warfare with each other and with other tribes and nations."