At Naples we regretfully parted with Mr. Parrish and Miss Lee. Patsy laid in a stock of sandwiches, milk chocolate and newspapers, and we set our faces to the south, prepared for any fate. Soon after leaving Naples our train broke down. “_E rotto il Westinghouse_,” the guard said to each separate traveler in turn. “Look at Vesuvius, or what’s left of it!” cried Patsy. We had halted within sight of the great volcano. Patsy had not seen it since the eruption of 1906, when one of the twin cones sank out of sight and the whole outline of the mountain was altered, losing much of its distinction. “I never thought to see the everlasting hills change their very shape before my eyes--that gives you an idea of volcanic force!” On the 25th of March we woke to a wet world. Through the blurred windows of the sleeping-car we looked out upon emerald fields and fruit orchards, between stretches of rough uncultivated land. The way passed through lemon groves, where the trees were covered thick with pale gold lemons, the air was sweet with the fragrance of their blossoms; through vast plantations of blue-green cactus, like those of Morocco; through orange groves where the branches bent beneath the weight of red-gold fruit. Everywhere was that splendid contrast of the red and yellow golds, mixed with the gorgeous dark green foliage of the nespoli, whose fruit ripens much later--now there were only hard little green balls between bunches of long graceful leaves. Here and there the green was softened by rosy peach blossoms, the intenser pink of the apricot, or the queer gray sprawling limbs of fig trees covered with silvery bloom, though not a leaf had yet unfolded. “How can we be such fools as to linger in a city when the miracle of Spring has begun!” Patsy exclaimed; we all agreed never again to commit that folly of follies. At every station we passed cars loaded with piles of newly sawed American lumber, shipped from Naples and distributed at various points on the Calabrian coast. At Palmi we saw the first ruins. Some little wooden huts had been built on the lower slopes of the hill; on the side-tracks were rows of extra railway carriages, turned into shelters for the poor homeless people. It had been raining desperately until we reached Palmi, where fortunately it held up long enough for us to have a good look at the magnificent olive trees, the finest I ever saw. A whole forest of olives goes climbing up the mountainside, like hoary giants with wild arms tossed to heaven. The trees in Dante’s Inferno, that bled when their limbs were broken, must have looked like these ancient olives of Palmi, centuries old, still the main support of the peasants on whose land they grow. The chestnuts were as fine in their way, sturdy umbrageous monarchs of the wood, but lacking the mystery that above all other trees the olive, Athena’s gift, possesses.