Etna

There was but the slightest quiver in the Eastern part of Sicily one day last week. The silvery olive trees rustled for a moment although there was no wind. By the eastern coast, the Mediterranean waters gulped uneasily.

The peasants in the half dozen villages and towns at the foot of Mt. Etna knew. And even in Catania, some twenty miles away, they knew for they had been destroyed before.

Mascali was most certainly the town which first would be obliterated. Here young peasant maids crossed themselves, paused a moment at the churches. Grandmothers, rich in ancient lore, retold tales. Enceladus, the Titan, was buried under Etna when he had dared to defy Zeus. Now and again he stirred in discomfort or anger. Hephaestus, god of fire and the metallic arts, had a smithy in Etna. He was fashioning terrible Olympian swords which his journeymen, the Cyclops, would deliver.

Clear headed peasants glanced anxiously at the sinister smoke-plume which rolled upward from Etna's crater, and darkened the sky over Mascali.

After a day of uncertainty, they saw the lava slip slowly down the slope. Little jets of steam hissed from the mountain's side. The 10,000 inhabitants reluctantly prepared to leave. White surpliced priests marched chanting part way up the volcano. In supplication and prayer they bore relics of St. Vitus, born in Sicily, or St. Leonardo, their patron saint.

The lava advanced inch by inch. As it slid forward it cooled and made a wall which checked the lava behind it. Sometimes this wall slowly mounted to a height of 50 feet.

By day it looked like the gray crinkled hide of an elephant. At night it was an arabesque pattern of vermilion, magenta, citron. Then the top of the wall would curl like a malevolent phosphorus wave. With a crash as of metallic surf it would topple, advance, cool, form another wall. For some reason the lava moved more swiftly at night. Even from Messina, at the northern tip of Sicily, it could be seen slipping down Etna, like a tiny blazing snake.

A cloud of ashes blotted the stars, the moon. Waves of heat shot from the mountain and the air choked with sulphur and acid fumes. . . . Farmyard beasts screeched. Cats, fascinated, stood fast facing Etna's black jelly until it caught their fore paws. Then the cats could not drag themselves free, could not bound away. Birds swooped inquisitively towards the moving earth, were paralyzed by the heat and vapors, tumbled down into the mess. Lava buried all.

Most Mascalians fled north to Nunziata or south to Carrabba and Giarre. But many refused to leave their homes so swiftly. Here and there a bedfast invalid screamed foolishly. Many were crazed, stupefied by the fumes. Three, a grandfather, a father and a son. suddenly broke away, rushed into their house. Streams of lava trickled on all sides barring exit. Agonized onlookers saw them climb to the roof, stare stupidly at the Wall. The Wall broke. The three peasants, dead, were held fast and straight by the lava which coiled and recoiled about their knees. The lava slid up to their shoulders, and above their heads.

Streams. The lava formed three main streams. One slid north-east over Nunziata, one east over Mascali to Carrabba, one southwards to Giarre and toward Catania.

In Mascali at the time of its destruction was Signor Giovanni Giurati, Minister of Public Works. His valises packed, he was quite prepared to leave the no longer pleasant island of Sicily. But a telegram from Il Duce informed him that he must direct the work of salvage. Efficiently Signor Giurati assumed the role of St. George, valiantly and often vainly fought the dragon with dynamite.

From the Pope and Il Duce came funds for relief. Mussolini announced that all restoration would be at the expense of the Government.

Over Etna flew airplanes. Observers reported 100 new craters. The Volcano Institute of Italy pronounced the eruption the worst since 1669.