and ragged, and we shall eat minestra of beans in place of ravioli for dinner. But the cool air fans freshly all the same upon the children's cheeks, meadows are soft and fragrant that lie around the black-and-white house-the garden grows peas and beans and gourds and lettuce beneath the fruit trees, and this is matter of interest to everybody. The vines trail wildly across the kitchen window, and boys and girls think it fine fun to blow the sulphur upon them that keeps off the fell disease. Who cares whether children's clothes are rent and threadbare, since roses are coming to their cheeks in the wild, free life and the good air of this Apennine villeggiatura? 275 Il Corpus Domini. The Procession. A JUNE day's dawn breaks white over the land, and in its wake comes the sun, glorious to shine where dewdrops have lain cool through the short summer night. They lie still on plucked flowers and herbage in the town market of S. Domenico, though the sun rose half an hour ago, and they lie thicker on soft green turf and gently stirring blossoms, beneath the breezy chestnut woods of Apennine or Riviera mountains. And the fair fine weather gladdens many a heart to-day, for it is the feast of the Corpus Domini. Whether in country cottages or in city streets-those small and darker streets where dwell the working people, who yet can be moved by a feast day-in homes that stand beneath a cool green shade, as in flats that have but the sadder shade from tall, town houses opposite-all rise early on this hot June morning, because after mass there is the great procession. Many folk, young and old, poor and gentle, donned holiday dress to see the carnival of Martedì Grasso and, of these, all are, perhaps, not left to wear their best clothes again for this other pageant that is of the Church. But Rosina, the fair fioraja, still combs her long black hair and smiles to show her fine white teeth, and, from her room beside the camellia-beds of the Peschiere, she comes forth adorned for the day. And many others walk beside her in the procession, who stood beside her, perhaps, to see the blessing of the palms at S. Lorenzo, and knelt in divers churches before the Santo Sepolcro. Maddalena, the little servant wench, walks behind the great cross in crisply smoothed pezzotto and ear-drops that were new for the sister's festival of the first communion. She is proud to be so near the procession's heart, and glances along the ranks to see the crimson banners floating aloft, and the Virgin's images, to marvel at the great throng of priests, where the Archbishop bears the Host beneath gaudy panoply. Yet Maddalena cannot see the whole of the great sight so well as can la padrona, who sits on a convenient balcony of the Via Nuova, and sprinkles flowers upon the crowd, while she listens to compliments from the rich silk mercer at her side, and secretly admires that very dress which her little maid has so often assured her is becoming. Not even la Pettinatrice, who has secured a side. window through hair-dressing acquaintance, can see the great silver ark that holds the ashes of S. John, so closely |