On, on they sped, catching glimpses of gnarled olive trees, silvery gray,
while Roman walls, centuries old, silhouetted against the horizon, spoke
of a civilization long past. There were rounded hill-slopes and ancient
castles, while the broad Adige dashed madly along the sides of the track.
It was two o'clock when they reached their destination and rumbled into the
huge covered station of Verona.
With beating heart, Andrea followed the business-like Pietro as he led the
way out of the station and hailed a vettura [Footnote: Carriage.] to take
them up the wide tree-shaded avenue.
The boy paid little attention to the marble palaces by which they drove,
but was overwhelmed at the experience of actually being behind a horse.
He drew a deep breath--it was a dream come true; he was further amazed at
finding their conveyance but one of an endless throng of wagons, carriages,
and tram-cars.
In many ways Verona is fully as old-fashioned as Venice, but to Andrea the
city seemed the personification of all that was progressive, and while the
horses were not the gay steeds of the boy's dream, they were really alive,
and wonder of wonders, as they drove over the grand arches of the historic
structure which bridges the muddy, swirling waters of the Adige, they
were suddenly outdistanced by what Pietro pointed out as one of the few
automobiles of Verona.
The boy's eyes widened. What tales he would have to tell old Paolo and the
little Maria! When they came to the great Arena, in the heart of the city,
Pietro dismissed their vettura, and together they walked down the principal
promenade to the shopping center where they mingled with the endless crowds
of pedestrians and looked into the windows of the gay little shops that
made Andrea think of Venice.
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