As our train roared through the tunnels and toiled around the bold faces of the mountains the greater portion of that mid-afternoon, we were talking anxiously of what Gualtieri must be like, for it was set down in the books as a town of 5,000 people, and we feared that it would be much too large a community to yield the typical country family such as we had found made up the great mass of Italian emigrants. Soon we left the heights and the narrow defiles, and came down to the sea in plain view of the island volcano Stromboli, belching great volumes of vapor into the azure dome, and finally pulled up at Santa Lucia, bracketed in the time-table as the station of the town of Gualtieri. When we stepped out of the compartment the only building near at hand was the square, squat, stuccoed station, while a few houses straggled away in the distance. We were for climbing aboard again, but the guards were calling “Santa Lucia-Gualtieri-Sicamino, Pagia, San Filippo,” and even as we hesitated the _capo_ blew his horn and the train crawled away towards Milazzo, in view on the far blue cape, and left us standing there. To the north was the blue-green sea close at hand, to the east and west the bold knees of the mountains coming out to the water line, to the south the hills piled one on another, broken by twisting valleys. In the late afternoon sunlight, falling athwart the inland slopes, I could see how they were terraced like gardens in order to allow them to be cultivated and the terraces ran up to great heights. Certainly there was nothing about us to make us think we had come to a too city-like community for our experiment. Many, many miles away on heights we could see some white houses in clustering villages, but if there was a town of five thousand people lying about somewhere it was rather artfully concealed. As I surrendered our tickets to the _capo di stazione_ I said:— “Is this the station for Gualtieri-Sicamino?” “Yes, sir.” “Well, where is the town?” “You go along this road.” He pointed to a narrow wagon road running along the tracks for a short distance, then winding into the heart of the hills. It was two inches deep with dust, and the sun beat down on it with great fervor. In addition to our being encumbered with the heavy camera, and one carefully packed valise, I realized that it was about 110° Fahrenheit on that bit of the king’s highway. “How far is it to the town?” “Eleven kilometers, sir.” (Seven miles and more!) “I—I—suppose I can hire a carriage hereabouts,” I said,—a little faintly, I fear. “No, there is no cart around here now.” “How about a donkey or two?” The station-master swept the surrounding country with hand-shaded eyes and shook his head deprecatingly. “No, all that I can see are carrying loads of grapes.” Seven miles’ tramp in that dust and sun with our luggage, which contained photographic things too precious to leave out of our sight!