The road winds down among the pines till

The highway winds down among the many pines until, at proper angles to it, seems one other highway, or tough observe simply extensive sufficient for a carriage. This results in a big mound which bars the best way. Upon this mound a habitation was perched. It was raised excessive above the bottom upon a type of tripod of poles. It had yellow partitions of wheat, and a roof and flooring of brushwood and maize. A ladder gave entry to it, and from it there was a large outlook over the entire crescent-shaped plain of Marathon. This dwelling belonged to a guardian of the vineyards, and the mound is the tomb of those that died within the nice battle.


I sat for a very long time on this unusual tomb, within the shadow of the country watch-house, and seemed out over the plain. It’s fairly flat, and is now cultivated, although there are some naked tracts of unfruitful floor. In all instructions I noticed straggling vines. Not far-off was one low, red-tiled home belonging to a peasant, whose three small, soiled, and un-healthy-looking kids presently approached, and gazed at me from under. Within the distance a person on a white horse rode slowly towards the pine-woods, and to my left I noticed a bunch of girls bending mysteri-ously to perform some activity unknown to me. No different figures may I see between me and the bright- blue waters that when bore up the fleet of Persia. Behind me have been stony and never very excessive hills, ending within the slopes down which Miltiades made his troopers advance “at a working tempo.” 100 and ninety-two courageous males gone to mud beneath me; as a substitute of the commemorative lion, the little watch- home of brushwood and wheat and maize; silence the one epitaph. The mound, of onerous, sun-baked earth, was yellow and naked.

On one facet just a few rusty- wanting thorn-bushes adorned it harshly. However about it grew aloes, and the wild oleander, with its bright-pink flowers, and close to by have been many nice fig-trees. A river intersects the plain, and its course is marked by sedges and tall reeds. The place the land is naked, it takes a tawny-yellow hue. Some clustering low homes far off below the hills kind the Albanian village of Marathon. Simply twenty-two miles from Athens, this place of an historic glory, this tomb of males who, I suppose, is not going to be forgotten as long as the Hellenic kingdom lasts, appears very far-off, hidden from the world between woods and waters, solitary, however not unhappy. Past the plain and the ocean are ranges of mountains and the island of Eubcea.



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