him shouting; that is, he was trying to
shout, although he produced only a sort of long, thin hoot.

"What can that be?" I said, startled.

"It is the Professor," answered Mrs. Trescott. "It is his way of
calling. He has his own methods of doing everything."

It turned out that he had found a path down which the lemon girls were
coming from the terraces above. We went up to this point to see them
pass. They were all strong and ruddy, and walked with wonderful
erectness, balancing the immense weight of fruit on their heads without
apparent effort; they were barefooted, and moved with a solid, broad
step down the steep, stony road. The load of fruit for each one was one
hundred and twenty pounds; they worked all day in this manner, and
earned about thirty cents each! But they looked robust and cheerful, and
some of them smiled at us under their great baskets as they passed.

One afternoon not long after this we went to the Capuchin monastery of
the Annunziata. Some of us were on donkeys and some on foot, forming
one of those processions so often seen winding through the streets of
the little Mediterranean town. We passed the shops filled with the
Mentone swallow, singing his "Je reviendrai" upon articles in wood, in
glass, mosaic, silver, straw, canvas, china, and even letter-paper, with
continuous perseverance; we passed the venders of hot chestnuts, which
we not infrequently bought and ate ourselves. Then we came to the
perfume distilleries, where thousands of violets yield their sweetness
daily.

"They cultivate them for the purpose, you know," said Verney. "It's a
poetical sort of agriculture, isn't it? Imagination can hardly go
further, I think, than the idea of a violet farm."

We passed small chapels with their ever-burning lamps; the new villas
described by the French newspapers as "ravishing constructions"; and
then, turning from the road, we ascended a narrow path which wound
upward, its progress marked here and there by stone shrines, some
freshly repainted, others empty and ruined, pointing the way to the holy
church of the Annunziata.

"The only way to appreciate Mentone is to take these excursions up the
valleys and mountains," said Mrs. Clary. "Those who confine themselves
to sitting in the gardens of the hotels or strolling along the Promenade
du Midi have no more idea of its real beauty than a man born blind has
of a painting. Descriptions are nothing; one must _see_. I think the
mountain excursio