82 



THE OPAL SEA 



Seen from 



Monte 



Sergio. 



The won- 

 derful sea. 



patches of poppies, beds of cannge, great masses of 

 oleander. At the southern end of the city is a little 

 harbor where fishing smacks with gray, yellow, and red 

 sails are slowly gliding about, a lead-colored torpedo 

 boat lies at anchor, and from the stern droops the Aus- 

 trian flag, showing a blood-red reflection in the water. 

 Along the wharves are reddish groups of Albanians, 

 Bosnians, Herzegovinians. Rings of chimney swallows 

 and white pigeons go circling around the towers; and 

 between the harbor and an outlying island drifts of 

 gulls slowly wing their way with white backs gleaming 

 in the sun. Far out at sea a black ocean steamer is 

 trailing a sooty line of smoke along the horizon. Around 

 me on the mountainside are worn-out groves of olive, 

 and above me are thistle and cactus patches where don- 

 keys and black goats browse, and where a stony trail 

 winds over the mountain and into the neighboring 

 valley. Bands of Herzegovinian men and women in 

 their picturesque costumes are coming and going to 

 market along the trail. They stop, pass the time of day 

 with me, and I tell them in Italian, which they do not 

 understand, that the sea is beautiful; and they answer, 

 in some dialect which I do not understand, that it is 

 most beautiful. Our languages do not convey much, 

 but we comprehend, nevertheless. We are talking 

 about the wonderful sea, and they are not so weary with 

 the everyday sight of it that they fail to respond. Is 

 it always so beautiful? Yes; the land may yield little 

 food and the sun in summer is perhaps burning hot; but 

 always there is the peace and beauty of the sea stretched 

 before them. Has the sun ever shone upon another 

 such sea as this? As I watch it to-day from the hillside 

 above this ancient city on its foot of rock, it seems as 



