ause 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