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WITH COTTAGERS IN MOUNTAINS 159
us back through the dark tunnel with the most amiable
assurances of their good wishes.
Once more we are out on the foot-path which runs
between the edge of the abyss and the far-flung olive-
groves; or we move over a road of chalk-dust, with
two-wheeled ox-carts rumbling and swaying over it,
roofed by a circular barrel-vault of canvas. The oxen
mind their own course while the driver, singing love-
songs, lies on the floor of the wagon, which fairly
slides along the ground. At every inn the oxen stop
of their own accord while the driver crawls out of his
Pullman-compartment with the greatest amazement,
looking inquiringly at his animals and at the strange
universe around him. Then he enters the inn and calls
for a penny glass of something.
We have seated ourselves in front of a decrepit lit-
tle house by the edge of the road in order to rest. At
once an old woman comes trudging out with a couple
of chairs; but when a younger woman comes out and
sees what she has done, she rebukes her. What
a peculiar thing to invite people to sit out on the bare
road! Won’t you please come in? The house has
one room only. One half of it contains the open
hearth and the living room; the other half is sleep-
ing quarters and the stable for one goat and one
donkey. As we talk to the younger woman, the old
woman does not turn her eyes away from us, and she
moves her lips.
“You come from far away I suppose?” she finally
asks.
“Oh, yes, it isn’t so near.”
“Then you must have seen the ocean—you must
have sailed on it? It must be a curious thing, the
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