I was in Athens when the coming of age of Crown Prince George, the brave, handsome young Greek of whom we hear so much, was celebrated.
The streets, from the palace to the church where the ceremonies were to take place, were most beautiful with triumphal arches. Rich tapestries floated from the windows all along the way, and the flags of all nations—among them our own dear Stars and Stripes—swung merrily to the breeze.
The city was full of soldiers. Among them were the Greek mountaineers in their picturesque costume of white linen, consisting of tunics with long, flowing sleeves, and kilted skirts so full and so starched that they stood out like the skirts of a circus rider.
Their long, pointed shoes, which turned up at the toes like a toboggan, had large red rosettes on the very points. Their caps were brightly colored, and a long tassel fell from the crown to their shoulders.
Not a very good fighting costume, you will probably think; but if you had looked into their keen eyes and determined faces, you would have forgotten the costume—especially if they had come to fight you.

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