ther for driving than the streets
of Cordova, but the rain had made it heavy, and we were glad of our good
horses and their owner's mercy to them. He stopped so often to breathe
them when the ascent began that we had abundant time to note the
features of the wayside; the many villas, piously named for saints, set
on the incline, and orcharded about with orange trees, in the beginning
of that measureless forest of olives which has no limit but the horizon.

From the gate to the villa which we had come to see it was a stiff
ascent by terraced beds of roses, zinneas, and purple salvia beside
walls heavy with jasmine and trumpet creepers, in full bloom, and orange
trees, fruiting and flowering in their desultory way. Before the villa
we were to see a fountain much favored by our guide who had a passion
for the jets that played ball with themselves as long as the gardener
let him turn the water on, and watched with joy to see how high the
balls would go before slipping back. The fountain was in a grotto-like
nook, where benches of cement decked with scallop shells were set round
a basin with the figures of two small boys in it bestriding that of a
lamb, all employed in letting the water dribble from their mouths. It
was very simple-hearted, as such things seem mostly obliged to be, but
nature helped art out so well with a lovely abundance of leaf and petal
that a far more exacting taste than ours must have been satisfied. The
garden was in fact very pretty, though whether it was worth fifteen
pesetas and three hours coming to see the reader must decide for himself
when he does it. I think it was, myself, and I would like to be there
now, sitting in a shell-covered cement chair at the villa steps, and
letting the landscape unroll itself wonderfully before me. We were on a
shore of that ocean of olives which in southern Spain washes far up the
mountain walls of the blue and bluer distances, and which we were to
skirt more and more in bay and inlet and widening and narrowing expanses
throughout Andalusia. Before we left it we wearied utterly of it, and in
fact the olive of Spain is not the sympathetic olive of Italy, though
I should think it a much more practical and profitable tree. It is not
planted so much at haphazard as the Italian olive seems to be; its
mass looks less like an old apple orchard than the Italian; its regular
succession is a march of trim files as far as the horizon or the
hillsides, which they often climbed