little hamlet of Kievo, on the Jugoslav frontier. Though the Slav
population of the Dalmatian hinterland is, according to the assertions
of Belgrade, bitterly hostile to Italian rule, I did not detect a single
symptom of animosity toward the Italian officers who were my companions
on the part of the peasants whom we passed. They displayed, on the
contrary, the utmost courtesy and good feeling, the women, looking like
huge and gaudily dressed dolls in their snowy blouses and embroidered
aprons, courtesying, while the tall, fine-looking men gravely touched
the little round caps which are the national head-gear of Dalmatia.

Kievo is the last town in Dalmatia, being only a few score yards from
the Bosnian frontier. Its little garrison was in command of a young
Italian captain, a tall, slender fellow with the blond beard of a Viking
and the dreamy eyes of a poet. He had been stationed at this lonely
outpost for seven months, he told me, and he welcomed us as a man
wrecked on a desert island would welcome a rescue party. In order to
escape from the heat and filth and insects of the village, he had built
in a near-by grove a sort of arbor, with a roof of interlaced branches
to keep off the sun. Its furnishings consisted of a home-made table, an
army cot, two or three decrepit chairs, and a phonograph. I did not need
to inquire where he had obtained the phonograph, for on its cover was
stenciled the familiar red triangle of the Y.M.C.A.--the "_Yimka_," as
the Italians call it--which operates more than 300 _casas_ for the use
of the Italian army. While our host was preparing a dubious-looking
drink from sweet, bright-colored syrups and lukewarm water, I amused
myself by glancing over the little stack of records on the table. They
were, of course, nearly all Italian, but I came upon three that I knew
well: "_Loch Lomond_," "_Old Folks at Home_" and "_So Long, Letty_." It
was like meeting a party of old friends in a strange land. I tried the
later record, and though it was not very clear, for the captain's supply