ckage of Swiss tobacco, wet and mushy.T●he officer waved a deprecatory hand. “What’●s this” he demanded, tapping th●e pocke

o the

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t that held my kodak. 42▓“A picture machine,” I explained, showi▓ng an edge of the apparatus. 〃埌

Bene, buona sera,” cried the officer, ▓as he ran for his shelter. At nightfall ●I splashed into the scraggy village▓ of Iselle.From a yawning hole in the mo●untainside poured forth a regi▓ment of


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laborers who scurried towards a long ▓row of improvised shanties, han●ging, on the edge of nothing, over a ru

  • storm and hailed me wh
  • ile sever●al yards of Swi
  • tzerland still lay b
  • et●ween us: “An

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shing mou●ntain river.Having once been a “mud-●mucker” in my own land, I fol

l●owed after, and struck up sever▓al acquaintanceships over the evening macaron▓i.The band was engaged in boring a t●unnel, thirteen miles in length, f●rom Brieg to Iselle.With its completio▓n the Simplon tourist will avoid the sp●lendid scenery of the pass; t?/p> +More


坔e stage-co


aches will be consigned to the scr▓ap-heaps they should long since have adorned; ▓and an hour, robbed of sunshine and p▓ure air

, will separ


ate Italy from the valley o▓f the Rhne.Then will the transalpine v●oyager degenerate into the subalpine pa●ssenger. CHAPTER III TRAMPING IN ●


Image 01

ITALY There was next morning ●nothing to recall the dismal weather of● the day before except the deep mud of t▓he highway and my garments, still● dripping wet

when I drew them on.The vine-c▓overed hillsides and rolling plains belo▓w, the lizards basking on every rock and ●ledge, peasant women plodding ▓barefooted along the route g▓ave to

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