e the only evidences of the
devil-guided flight. Now she looked on a new world, and the familiar
pagodas lay far to the east within the eye of the rising sun.

There are summer evenings in my recollection when I have traveled the
skies, landing from the sky's blue sea upon the cloud continent, and
traversing its mountain ranges, its inland lakes, harbors and valleys.
Over the wind-swept ridges I have gone, watching the world-change, seeing

the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the Kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss and loss with store.

The greatest traveler that I know is a little man, slightly bent, who
walks with a stick in his garden or sits passive in his library. Other
friends have boasted of travels in the Orient, of mornings spent on the
Athenian Acropolis, of visiting the Theatre of Dionysius, and of hallooing
to the empty seats that re-echoed. They warn me of this and that hotel,
and advise me concerning the journey from London. The usual tale of
travelers is that Athens is a ruin. I have heard it rumored, for instance,
that the Parthenon marbles are in London, and that the Parthenon itself
has suffered from the "wreckful siege of battering days"; that the walls
to Piraeus contain hardly one stone left upon another.

And this sets me to thinking, for my friend denies all this with such an
air of sincerity that I am almost inclined to believe his word against all
the others. The Athens he pictures is not ruinous. The Parthenon stands
before him as it left the hand of Phidias. The walls to Piraeus stand high
as on that morning, now almost forgotten, when Athens awaited the Spartan
attack. For him the Dionysian Theatre does not echo to tourists' shouts,
but gives forth the sounds of many-voiced Greek life. He knows, too, the
people of Athens. He walked one day with Socrates along the banks of the
Ilissus, and afterwards visited him in his prison when about to drink the
hemlock. It is of the grandeur of Athens and her sons that he speaks, not
of her ruins. The best of his travels is that he buys no tickets of Cook,
nor, indeed, of any one, and when he has seen the cities' sights, his wife
enters and says, "Isn't it time for the bookworm to eat?" So he has his
American supper in the next room overlooking Attica, so to speak.

[Illustration]

THROUGH THE SCUTTLE WITH THE TINMAN

[Illustration]

THROUGH THE SCUTTLE WI