112 MEMOIR OF FLEEMING JENKIN 



room, from the door of which the long, mountain 

 coasthne and the sparkhng sea show of an impos- 

 sible blue through the openings of a white-washed 

 rampart. I try a sea-egg, one of those prickly 

 fellows — sea-urchins they are called sometimes ; 

 the shell is of a lovely purple, and when opened, 

 there are rays of yellow adhering to the inside ; 

 these I eat, but they are very fishy. 



' We are silent and shy of one another, and soon 

 go out to watch white-turbaned, blue-breeched, 

 bare-legged Arabs dig holes for the land telegraph 

 posts on the following principle : one man takes 

 a pick and bangs lazily at the hard earth ; when a 

 little is loosened, his mate with a small spade lifts 

 it on one side ; and da capo. They have regular 

 features and look quite in place among the palms. 

 Our English workmen screw the earthenware 

 insulators on the posts, strain the wire, and order 

 Arabs about by the generic term of Johnny. I find 



W has nothing for me to do ; and that in fact 



no one has anything to do. Some instruments for 

 testing have stuck at Lyons, some at Cagliari ; 

 and nothing can be done — or at any rate, is done. 

 I wander about, thinking of you and staring at 

 big, green grasshoppers — locusts, some people call 

 them — and smelling the rich brushwood. There 

 was nothing for a pencil to sketch, and I soon got 

 tired of this work, though I have paid willingly 

 much money for far less strange and lovely sights. 



