As the evening wore on I first gave attention to the large olive-press close to the mission-house.  The press was simple in construction, consisting of a large bowl-shaped rock from the center of whose depression rose an upright post of wood; to this post was fastened a long nearly-horizontal beam, not unlike what might be seen in the old-time cider-mill or cane-mill; slipped onto this beam by means of a large hole in its center was a large stone shaped like a grind-stone; this rock, pushed well up to the post, rested in the bowl of the other rock.  When the natives pushed or pulled the beam around in tread-mill fashion the circular stone turned on the beam, and at the same time moved round and round in the hollow of the other rock.  Thus the olives placed in the bowl-shaped rock were thoroughly crushed and the oil was caught in vessels.

Then I watch the shepherds leading their large flocks of sheep and goats in from the mountain pastures to their folds for the night.  All day these faithful guardians have been with their flocks seeking good pasture and water for them,—­no easy task in the fall of the year near the end of the dry season.  They have guarded the sheep from the danger of beast, or precipice, or pit; have released those caught in the under-brush; have ministered to the needs of the sick; and now as night approaches they come leading—­ not driving—­their flocks in quiet movement from out the mountain-paths to the sheltering fold in the village for the night, again to lead them forth on to-morrow, and to do likewise day after day.  To see the tender solicitude of the Oriental shepherd for his sheep adds much to one’s appreciation of the beauty and fitness of the teaching of the Master in his parable of the Good Shepherd.

But it is near the sunset hour of my only evening in these sacred mountains.  I seek a vantage-ground and watch the King of Day sink slowly down to his couch of rest behind the western mountains and the farther sea.  Oh, how beautiful!  The sky is ablaze with a glory indescribable by mortal tongue.  All space seems vocal with praise to the God of love and beauty.

In the strange and peaceful quiet of that evening I felt the presence of a mysterious, subtle influence stirring within me.  In the shower of gold flung out as a good-night to me, and as the star of evening smiled down upon me in the purpling twilight and began calling her myriads of companions to their sentry-posts to keep watch over me through the hours of the night in that strange land, I felt, I think, the spirit of the poetry,

    “Sunset and evening star,
    And one clear call for me,” etc.,

in its fullness.  Indeed, the air seemed vibrant with a living personality, which, without undue stretching of the imagination, I recognized as the spirit of history come to tell me the wonderful story of those wonderful mountains.  Enraptured I listened.