A Night on the Summit of Mt. Vesuvius 



Edwin B. Whiting 

 Branford Conn. 



To climb Mt. Vesuvius without a guide and to spend the night 

 as near the rim of the ash cone as would be consistent with not 

 rolling down the steep slopes, one must break the universal custom 

 of tourists and, incidentally, the law of Italy. Whether all 

 Americans find aesthetic pleasure in the breaking, as well as the 

 making of laws, may be a debatable subject, but I trust my avoid- 

 ance of the law which insists on the added burden of a guide on 

 the climb to the crater edge of the volcano, will inspire a secret 

 respect in the heart of the average American. 



The upper part of the mountain is more barren than the Sahara, 

 yet subject to frequent and heavy thunderstorms. A trusty 

 umbrella and light waterproof cape were my provision against 

 the possibility of too much sky water on the outer man; while 

 the lightest form of canteen, a large rubber hot water bottle, 

 carried a hopefully fever free supply of water for the inner man. 

 From Naples, the tram carried me around the curve of the bay 

 and deposited me at the base of the mountain. There the fun 

 began. 



My canteen called loudly for 'aqua buona.' A pocket full of 

 the Italian language, I had in the form of a conversation dictionary, 

 but my head contained only a few scattered words that slipped 

 around and became dismally mixed in the general vacuum. At 

 last, after the rapidly gathering multitude had wasted a shocking 

 amount of language, and my rubber canteen had swelled with 

 pride and water, I set off up the steep slope with the inevitable 

 stone walls on either hand. 



As foam flies from a wave, there came from the multitude an 

 escort of five boys of varying degrees of smallness. To my dying 

 day I shall never forget the unabashed cheerfulness of that escort. 

 "De me 'un solde! came incessantly from each little imp, as they 

 followed my toiling footsteps up the steep mountain side. 'Pic- 

 colo', the smallest and most importunate, received many a love 

 tap from his fellows on his round close cropped head. Poor 

 little barefoot dark eyed Piccolo! He was learning the pangs of 

 the power of organized competition, and the only watered stock 

 allowed him by the all absorbing trust took the form of tears. 



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