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THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



Photograph hy Fred Boissonnas 



GREEK PARISH PRIESTS WITH THEIR FAMILIES 



The papas, or parish priest of Greece, is often so poor that he is forced to doff the long 

 black gown and black skull-cap or high black hat and eke out his ecclesiastical income at some 

 secular task. His wife, or papadia, aids him in his agricultural labors. 



The coffee at the monastery of "Our 

 Lady of the Defile" was often a poor 

 thing and the bread at times incredibly 

 bad, but the mastika, a mild Greek liqueur 

 for which I at first conceived a violent 

 prejudice "from recollections of early 

 childhood" (it smells exactly like pare- 

 goric), was always of the very best 

 quality. 



On leaving the monastery the abbot and 

 two of the lay brothers walked with us 

 to the beginning of the road, which falls 

 sharply to the valley, while one of the 

 younger brothers brought a small bouquet 

 of flowers plucked on the hillside near by. 



We reached the village of Khasia, from 

 which our ascent had begun, just as the 

 soft twilight was stealing over hill and 

 valley. Across the plain the lights of 

 Kephisia began to twinkle; sheep-dogs 

 were baying in the distance; there was a 

 vague sound of far-off bells, and softly as 

 the dew the stars crept into the quiet skies. 



About fourteen miles from Athens lies 

 the city of Eleusis, on the bay of the same 



name. Directly facing it, across the blue 

 waters, is the island of Salami s. 



ALONG THE SACRED WAY 



From Athens to Eleusis leads a broad 

 road, the "Sacred Way," which vies with 

 the Appian Way in its claim to historical 

 interest. The route from Athens is across 

 a dusty plain, inadequately watered by 

 the Cephissus, a part of which is outlined 

 by olive groves. In these groves the 

 philosophers loved to walk, and to-day 

 they are the haunt of care-free children 

 and young lovers, who have perhaps found 

 a wisdom surpassing that of those gray 

 beards of far-off days. 



It is said that Tennyson loved water 

 above all the elements and would go 

 miles to see a gushing fountain ; it is cer- 

 tain that a sojourn in Attica, where such 

 a sight is rare, makes one linger by a 

 stream. The love of old Greek philoso- 

 phers and poets for streams and fountains 

 is due in large measure to this lack. 



Leaving the stream and the olive groves, 



