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234 DAYS IN THE SUN
again rises over the slope which carries the mighty
outworks of Alhambra in sharp rectangular strokes
against the white snow background of the Sierra.
We creep under the broad Moorish wall, cross a
sun-dried parched mountain top and are again on the
southern slope of the range. The steep declivity is
covered with Indian fig-cactus, which grips the cliffs
with its broad flat roots. Below us, the paths meander
downward like ribbons along the mountain-slope, and
over them irregular rows of smoking chimneys seem to
stick at right angles to the red mountain soil. We can
see the entrances to the caves from here; it is easy to
imagine that trolls and kobolds are cooking their early
breakfast in the heart of the rock. At certain points
the steep rocky wall changes to terraces where peach-
trees and almonds blossom; at other points the walls
are pitted by soft shots, sites of caves that have col-
lapsed.
The side of the hill has been blasted away to make
room for the road. The outer edge is protected by a
row of aloes, to keep travelers from falling over the
precipice. Naked gypsy children crawl under the
aloes, on whose blue-green horns the washing waves in
screaming colors, while the children thrust hands and
legs over the abyss. In the mountain wall there are
doors, outside which scarlet pigs are tethered by the
hind legs. Above in the mouths of the caves, browsed
by the cactus, that grows out of the cliff twined with
blackberry and wild ivy, sit swarthy babbling women,
helping each other in their morning toilet. “Ingleses!
Ingleses!” they cry as soon as they catch sight of us.
They come dashing or crawling from above and below.
The whole slope begins to swarm with life, and in an
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