On the silver sands of First Beach in the Island of Rhode Island, children were at play digging foundations, raising fortifications, laying out the parks and streets of a city. They worked long and hard; time was short, and the tide was coming in. Each wave, as it hissed and broke upon the beach, sent its thin line of foam a little nearer the brave outer wall of the town. Then came the inevitable inundation; the children shrieked with glee as the city wall crumbled, the church steeple toppled do

I F€ you will look at the general map of Spain and Portugal, you will see that the outlines of the Peninsula suggest the head of a man—a broad, square head, with a high forehead and plenty of room for a large brain. The profile, lying sharply cut on the blue Atlantic, shows a crest of disordered hair, a slightly swelling forehead, a long, sensitive, aristocratic nose with a sharply cut nostril, firm lips set close together, a fine chin tapering to a small pointed beard, a slight fulness under th

D AWN€ in a garden of Andalusia.... To the south, across the Straits of Gibraltar, the faint purple outlines of the Atlas Mountains mark the mysterious coast of Africa. To the north, beyond the green vega , four ranges of clear cut Sierras Gazoulos rise, one behind the other, from gray, vaporous valleys of mist. The only sounds are the rhythmic breaking of waves on the beach; the short breathing of a herd of goats—black, tawny, and white, with coarse hair and fierce, yellow eyes, and the crisp c

C ONCEPCION€ sitting in the patio under a golden shower of yellow Bankshire roses! That was our first impression of Seville. Pemberton, tall and lean, stood beside her, nervously twirling his stick. We hurried down to the courtyard; introductions followed. “ Mes amigos , Concepcion. She doesn’t speak a word of English—all the better for your Spanish. She is Sevilliana born. We will do our best between us to show you the town in—how many days or hours do you mean to stay?” “Weeks or months, rathe

“Hark, Pan pipes!” said J., “don’t you hear that lovely thin music of the shepherd’s flute?” “Here in Seville? Is it possible?” “Why not? All things are possible when you are living half in the tenth century, half in the twentieth!” The sylvan melody, shrilling louder, pierced the city’s drone. At our gate the piper paused and played his little tune again. He was a tall young man with a bold eye and a gay lilt of the head. His blue apron was tucked under his jacket, he wore a red rose behind his

T HE€ Guadalquiver was a swollen, tawny flood, whirling dead leaves and dry branches down to the sea. “Look,” said Pemberton, “the river has piled enough firewood against the piers of Triana bridge to keep a thrifty family a month.” A small boat, sculled by an old fisherman with gold earrings and a blue jersey, crept slowly towards the largest pile of brushwood at the middle pier. “I’m glad Isidro comes in for that bit of luck; he is a good sort, brings us fish every fast day, and doesn’t know I

R ODRIGO€, Pemberton’s son, a grave child with eyes of brown fire, met us at the gate of the patio; by his side stood a white lamb, with a wreath of yellow primroses round its neck. “You recognize the fleece of Huelva?” said Pemberton, “this is one of Miquel’s flock; every child must have its pet lamb at Easter, you know.” He opened the ancient iron gate,—the bars were lilies, tenderly wrought as if of a more precious metal,—and we passed through the Zaguan (vestibule) into the patio paved with

“The old Roman engineer who built Cordova Bridge did a good piece of work,” said Patsy. “See, those are his foundations; they are solid still,—it is a good bridge yet! The arches are paltry, modern things beside them; they were put up centuries later by a Moor called As-Sahn. It does not seem fair that his name should be remembered, and the Roman’s forgotten.” The Roman’s work is not forgotten, and will not be, while Cordova Bridge stands, and while the city arms remain a bridge on water. The we

“Who’s there?” “People of peace.” Encarnacion opened the door of the bell tower just a crack. Though the sun had not set, it was already dark inside the watch-tower of the Alhambra. The walls are six feet thick; the windows, narrow slits on the winding stair, let in very little light. Encarnacion carried a classic brass lamp for olive oil. She shaded the flame from her eyes with a long, hairy hand, and the light shining through showed how thin it was. Maria, the younger sister, as grim looking,

W E€ sailed from Algeciras for what Don Jaime called our “little crusade to Morocco.” The Don could not go with us; he was called to Madrid, he said, on important business. Patsy, who went down to Algeciras a day or two before us, had something to tell about the Conference then in session. The Moroccan delegates had arrived at night, bringing the ladies of their harems with them. They had landed between two and three in the morning, so the few curious persons waiting on the dock only caught an u

“S EÑORA, this is my mother,” said Pedra the Vestal, who took care of our sitting-room fire. “I am glad to make your acquaintance,” said Pedra’s mother; she shook my hand heartily, and looked at me with keen, kind eyes. “In regard to the washing, I will call for it on Mondays and bring it back on Fridays. If mending is required, there will be an additional price.” “Where do you wash the clothes?” She was astonished at the question. “In the river, where else?” “And where do you hang them out to d

L ITTLE Don Luis the Valencian took the pink from his mouth, when he met Villegas coming up the steps of the Prado Museum. “I was going away,” he said, “but I will turn back with you. Anything for an excuse not to go to work!” “Work!” Villegas fairly snorted! “You call painting work, when it is the only thing you like to do? Caramba! There are some things in this world hard to understand!” Villegas was disappointed. He had waited an hour at the studio for Luz, who never came for her sitting; thi

“T O-DAY is the fiesta of San Antonio the Abbot,” said Pedra, when she came in to light the fire. “The Señora should go to see the blessing of the animals at his church.” Fasts, feasts, everything connected with the Church has far greater importance in Madrid than in Rome. One gets some idea here of what the power of the church was in Italy before 1870. Pedra, who was very devout, never let me forget a saint’s day. It was like living in ancient Rome, this strict observance of the days of fest an

O UR€ winter in Madrid wore pleasantly away; we basked in the Sun of To-day, gave hardly a thought to the Shadow of Yesterday. Fate wove the thread of our existence into her tapestry of life in the Spanish capital in the year 1906; a many-toned fabric with touches of gold and silver, sinister crimson and sombre black. Now that the web is finished and hung up in the hall of memory, I see that in the earlier part rose color is the predominating tone. “It’s as good for a nation as it is for a perso

I N€ March Sir Maurice de Bunsen, the new English Ambassador, presented his credentials to the King. We went over to the palace to see what we could of the ceremony. There had been a sudden change in the weather. It was very hot waiting in the Plaza de Armas outside the palace. The chicos , playing at marbles instead of basking in the sun, had moved into the shadow. There were very few spectators; Mrs. Young, the wife of one of the English Secretaries, fair and cool in a white summer dress, her

M ADRID€ was astir early the King’s wedding morning. We left the Tower at seven o’clock, in order to get to the Puerta del Sol before the cordon of troops was drawn. We were to see the procession from the Hotel de Paris which stands at the angle of the Calle Alcalá and the Carerra San Jeronimo. We should see the marriage pageant cross the Puerta del Sol, the bull’s-eye of the city, pass down the Alcalá on the way from the palace to the church, and return by the way of the Jeronimo. Our friends,

“L OS Reyes! los Reyes! Bueno, Bueno! ” Don Jaime waved his sombrero wildly over his head and ran across the wet grass, followed by Patsy, who had snatched off his Panama and was roaring as if this were a football game: “Hip, hip, hurrah! The Queen, the Queen!” It was the morning after the wedding; considering the hour—it was still early—there were a great many people sitting in the chairs or pacing slowly under the trees of the Recoletos. All Madrid was drawing its breath, trying to steady its

“A RE you painting?” Don Luis, the Valencian, put his head into the studio. “Am I too early? The fandango is to-day, isn’t it?” “ Adelante! ” cried Villegas, “the ladies have come. Imperio will be here soon. I am only preparing my work for to-morrow.” He stood before a new canvas making a charcoal drawing of Angoscia. “He cannot waste five minutes!” sighed Lucia. “It seems that we are either working, or getting ready to work, day and night. Where does life come in?” asked Don Luis. “Turn the hea