It was the custom of the ancients to train vines between elms.

Then at Milan there were sharp-winged hawks, of a bright brown, cutting figures over the roofs.
These Italian carriages get damnably hot with the afternoon sun on them, and the chances are that before the engine has pulled to the top of the gorge the clanking chain will have broken.

Up, up, up, it goes, like a train on a scenic railway.

Every peak is covered with sharp trees, and amazing white villages are crowded on ledges.

There is always a white tower on the very summit, flat red-frilled roofs, and a sheer drop beneath.