MARATHON RUN TO ROME

"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 Maratho