, 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 them in 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 offic