soothed the soul. We stood looking at it for a long time. With us
were some high officials of the Italian government.

"A wonderful landscape," said Henry to our hosts.

"In all the world there is no match for it," said Medill.

"It has lain this way for three thousand years, bearing crops year
after year!" explained our host.

"Signor," said a friend of our host, "they tell me that this land
yields seven per cent net."

"Yes," replied our host. "I was talking to a man in the agricultural
department about it the other day; it really nets seven per cent."

"What's this land worth an acre?" This question came from me, who
has the Kansas man's seven devil lust to put a price on land.

"Well--I don't--" Our host looked at his Italian friends. They gazed,
puzzled and bewildered, and consulted one another. The discussion
developed a curious situation. No one knew the price of that land.
With us, out in the Middle West, a boy learns the probable price
of the land in his neighborhood, as soon as he learns the points of
the compass. Finally our host explained: "The truth of the matter
is that this land never has been sold in the memory of living men.
Probably most of it has remained in its present ownership for from
three hundred to five hundred years. No one sells land in Italy."

And that revealed much; there was the whole program of the agrarian