an orange scarf, drawn

melon between her feet she suggested a sort of female Princetonian quarterback about to snap the ball.

At intermediate stops several more orange-and-black Vodicean girls got aboard. "Is this Princeton. Junction or what?" I heard my companion mutter. But we were unprepared for the spectacle which awaited us on Vodice's wharf. Some 1,800 souls inhabit that tiny, vine-growing promontory town, and its 1,000 women dress exclusively in the orange-and-black costume, virtually a uniform, which I have described. Well, there on the quay stood those 1,000 Princetonianesque females, whose welcoming yells needed only a megaphone-brandishing cheer-leader to confirm our fleeting suspicion that some one had just made a touchdown or clouted a homer with the bases full (see page 60).

Press Illustrating Service HARSH OF ASPECT BUT LIGHT OF HEART

Except in the sheltered valleys of the littoral, Dalmatia's soil is poor, and the hard-working peasant farmers have little more than a tenth of it under the plow. Before the World War individual proprietorship was rare, the land being held by the zadruga, or household community, now obsolete. The present government's first step was to abolish feudal privileges-many of Dalmatia's land rights dated back to the period of Roman colonization-and to expropriate the landed estates. The present proposal is that the peasants become the proprietors of the land they cultivate.

sons.

Vodicean female's conviction that, be she flapper or grandmother, she is the bestdressed woman in town. "I'll take a photogr-" Hardly had the fatal words passed my lips when from 1,000 throats there arose a chorus of delighted shrieks. -"of just one costume," I hastily amended; but it was too late.

The human sea of orange-and-black femininity precipitated itself upon me and my camera, and I narrowly escaped by

fleeing to a housetop. Finally the mayor pacified the baffled mob by announcing that if the ladies would perform the Dalmatian kolo (round dance) in the public square, every last one of them would appear in my photograph (see page 60). Our next stop was Trogir. Though but a few hours from such considerable towns as Šibenik and Split, this walled and seagirt townlet, with its primitive folk, its superb church architecture, and its doorways adorned with crumbled carvings of the Venetian period, seems as remote from to-day as the street life depicted in some medieval painting (see Color Plate V).

Trogir has its lofty campanile-no unworthy second to that at Venice—and a Gothic cathedral whose portal, carved with quaint scenes of the Annunciation and the Nativity, is one of those unexpected gems in which Dalmatia abounds.

GATHERING DAISIES FOR INSECT POWDER

Near Trogir's towngate, with its inevitable, seaward-facing Lion of St. Mark, I found natives raking millions of dried daisy heads to and fro on a canvas-covered pavement. Puzzled, I made a dumbshow inquiry of the foreman. He looked up and began scratching himself. I repeated my dumb show, and this time he scratched himself all over, while prudently I moved to windward of him.

"It seems too bad they don't import insect powder," I remarked to the exconsul, who had just strolled up. “And is this outfit the Dried Daisy Products Corporation? If so, what does it produce?"

He questioned the foreman; then laughed: "He says he tried to put the idea over to you by scratching himself. It seems that Trogir exports dried daisies for the manufacture of insect powder."

By post automobile, along the beautifully cultivated Riviera of the Seven Castles, we came to Solin and Split. The former, now a busy harbor, figuring importantly in Yugoslavia's annual cement exportations of 350,000 tons, assumed archeological importance in 1833, when excavations revealed the remains of Salona, once the capital of Roman Dalmatia.

Solin is the preface to Split. Surely no city ever had a more picturesque ad

vent than when barbarian torches fired Salona in 620 A. D., and its refugees trekked to the deserted palace of a longdead Roman emperor and, rabbitlike, burrowed in. And their descendants haven't moved out yet. You may still trace Split's strange beginnings by wandering about the mammoth structure, powerfully walled and gated, whereto the invalid Diocletian retired upon his abdication (see Color Plate XI).

AN ANCIENT EMPEROR'S PALACE HOUSES 3,000 PEOPLE

Incidentally, the size of a Roman exemperor's retinue may be gauged by the fact that this once-splendid palace, within whose walls a web of streets and a parasitic growth of dwellings have developed, houses 3,000 people.

Its sea-facing frontage, commanding the palmetto-fringed esplanade and the busy quays which render Split the chief Yugoslav port, offers surely the strangest spectacle that ever revivified a Roman palace; for here, set high in a wall in which 38 Corinthian capitals are imbedded, are rows of humble, green-shuttered windows where shirtsleeved fathers smoke their pipes, and grandmothers water potted plants, and mothers patch garments for their swarming broods.

Turning a palace into a tenement-house formed the kernel of a city which to-day numbers 32,000 people. And though its Venetianate streets of balcony and archway will continue to expand, due to Split's commercial importance, they will never outlast their Roman-built, sluminhabited nucleus, where, among pagan temples abutting on drinking dives, the very stones seem to cry out, mocking an ephemeral modernity, “Ave Roma immortalis!"

Split's museum authorities have combed the region to collect precious examples of that embroidered, wide-sleeved, onepiece gown, now fast disappearing from among the peasants, which was derived from what Dalmatia gave to the world as a liturgical garment, the dalmatic, 1,700 years ago.

As for the still discoverable Bosnian bodice, literally sheathed in gold and silver coins, it represents more female cunning than is immediately apparent. Said