As I descended the steps I looked into a sea of faces, friendly faces, all. To my "Buon Giorno," there was a chorus of "How do you do?" from Slavs, Latins and Greeks alike, and in but a few moments there was a rather vital relation established between the man from the cabin and the men in the steerage. That is to me a perpetual wonder; this opening of their lives to the inquisitive eyes of the stranger. Why should they so readily disclose to me all their inmost thoughts, tell me of what they left behind, what they carry home and what awaits them? There is no magic in this, even as there is no effort. All I am sure of is that I want to know--not for the mere knowing, but because somehow the disclosure of a life is to me something so sacred, as if knowing men, I learned to know more of God. Of all the pleasures of that journey; those starry, never-to-be-forgotten nights, the phosphorescent path across the sea; the moonlit way from the deeps to the eternal heights, the first dim outlines of the mighty coasts of Portugal and Spain; Capri and Sorrento in the setting of the Bay of Naples--above them all, is the glory of the first opening of strange, human hearts to me, when "How do you do," from that gentle chorus of voices answered my "Buon Giorno." "What's your name?" I turned to a friendly Calabrian whose countrymen had encircled me and one after another we had shaken hands. "My name Tony." "Have you been a long time in America?" "Three year," he answered in fairly good English, while a friendly smile covered his face. "Where have you been?" "Tshicago, Kansas, Eeleenoy, Oheeo." In pretty nearly every place where rails had to be strung in that vast, encircling necklace of steel; where powder blasts opened the hidden fissures of the rocks; wherever his sinuous arm could exchange its patient stroke for American dollars. "Do you like America?" "Yes!" came a chorus of voices. "Yes!" And the faces beamed. "Why are you going back?" And I looked into the face of a man whom no one would have taken for an Italian, but who, too, was from Calabria. "Mia padre and madre is in Calabria. They are old. I am going home to work in the field." "How long have you been in America?" "Twelve years." That accounts for the changed look. "Where do you live?" "In Connecticut. Among the Yankees." "Do you like the Yankees?" "Yes," and his smile grew broader. "Yes, good men; but they drink too much whiskey--make head go round like wheel. Then Yankee get crazy and swear." And he shook his head, this critic of ours, who evidently did not believe that "really nice" ladies or even "really nice" gentlemen should drink whiskey, overmuch. "Why do you go back?" And this time it was a diminutive Neapolitan whom I addressed. His face wore a beatific smile.