The Whole Hacked By Those Mountains Mr. Gray
Mentions, With Belts Of Olive Orchard On Their Flanks, And Wild Paths
Furrowing And Wrinkling Their Stern Faces.
To your right there is a
sheeted cataract falling from the basins of the town laundry, where the
toil of the washers melts into nmsic, and their chatter, like that of
birds, drifts brokenly across the abyss to you.
While you sit musing or
murmuring in your rapture, two mandolins and a guitar smilingly intrude,
and after a prelude of Italian airs swing into strains which presently,
through your revery, you recognize as "In the Bowery" and "Just One
Girl," and the smile of the two mandolins and the guitar spreads to a
grin of sympathy, and you are no longer at the Caffe Sibylla in Tivoli,
but in your own Manhattan on some fairy roof-garden, or at some
sixty-cent _table d'hote,_ with wine and music included.
It was a fortnight later that we paid our visit to Frascati, not proudly
motoring now, but traversing the Campagna on the roof of a populous
tram-car, which in its lofty narrowness was of the likeness of an
old-fashionable lake propeller. The morning was, like most other
mornings in Rome, of an amiability which the afternoons often failed of;
but none of us passengers for Frascati doubted its promise as we
gathered at the tram-station and tried for tickets at the little booth
in a wall sparely containing the official who bade us get them in the
car.
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