ery restful for there was no hurry nor confusion nor crying
of wares for sale, and the balmy sea breeze had a soothing effect on the
nerves.

The weather was delightful and the air pure and clear when, on the
morning of April fourth, a party of sixteen filled the seats of a
four-horse drag for a drive from Nice to Mentone over the famous
Corniche road, a round trip of over forty miles, noted as one of the
finest drives in Europe. We had decided to go to Mentone over the Upper
Corniche road, which winds among the mountains, and return by the Lower
Corniche road, which follows the shores of the sea.

Our driver snapped his long-lashed whip and the horses started off as
gaily as if they shared our exuberant spirits.

"That is the river Paillon," said the driver, pointing to a diminutive
stream in the midst of a wide stony bed. "The river has very little
water in it now, but when the snow melts in the mountains it becomes a
torrent."

[Illustration: I. WINDS AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.]

[Illustration: II. FOLLOWS THE SHORE OF THE SEA.]

The little stream had a peaceful look. Many washer-women were busily at
work along its banks, many clothes lines were filled with drying
garments, and sheets were bleaching on the stones. A number of red
objects in the distance proved, as we drew nearer, to be a company of
red-trousered French soldiers washing their linen in the stream. Another
company in red trousers and white shirts marched by us, carrying their
bundles to the river. After leaving the river we passed an immense
public wash trough where forty women were washing clothes and apparently
having a social time. There was room at the trough for double that
number.

The macadamized road winding up the mountain side in easy grades,
supported at many places by walls of substantial masonry, was in perfect
condition. Occasionally as our team moved slowly upward we heard the
"honk, honk" of a horn and a racing automobile making a time record flew
swiftly by and was soon out of sight, or rushing down grade around sharp
curves at tremendous speed toward us caused some hearts in our coach to
palpitate in anxiety until the racer had safely passed.

"At this spot a Russian Count and his friend were killed on the morning
of the races," said our driver as we rounded one particularly sharp
curve. "The count, expecting to be a winner in the race, was speeding
his motor-car at the rate of fifty miles an hour, when it swerved
against the rocks