I Do Not Know Why This Harmless Hymn,
Which The Flageolettist Gave Extremely Well, Should Always Have Seemed
To Provoke
The derision of the donkey which apparently dwelt in harmony
with the birds in that garden, but the flageolettist had
No sooner ended
than the donkey burst into a bray, loud, long, and full of mockery, with
a close of ironical whistling and most insolent hissing; you would think
that some arch-enemy of the Anglo-Saxon race was laughing the new-felt
unity of the English and Americans to scorn. Later, but still before
daylight, came the wild cry of a boy, somewhere out of perdition,
following the deep bass invitation of his father's lost spirit to buy
his wares, whatever they were. We never knew, but we liked that boy's
despairing wail, and would not have missed it for ever so much extra
slumber. When all hope of more sleep was past there was no question of
the desirability of the boy who visibly arranged his store of oranges on
the curbstone under the villa wall, and seemed to think that they had a
peculiar attraction from being offered for sale in pairs. His cry filled
the rest of the forenoon.
The Italian spring comes on slowly everywhere, with successive snubs in
its early ardor from the snows on the mountains, which regulate the
climate from north to south. We could not see that it made more speed
behind the sheltering walls of the Capuchin convent garden than in other
places. The old gardener whom we saw pottering about in it seemed to
potter no more actively at the end of March than at the beginning of
February; on the first days of April a heap of old leaves and stalks was
sending up the ruddy flame and pleasant smell that the like burning
heaps do with us at the like hour of spring - in fact, vegetation had
much more reason to be cheerful throughout February than at any time in
March. Those February days were really incomparable. They had not the
melting heat of the warm spells that sometimes come in our Februaries;
but their suns were golden, and their skies unutterably blue, and their
airs mild, yet fresh. You always wanted a heavy coat for driving or for
the shade in walking; otherwise the temperature was that of a New
England April which was resolved to begin as it could carry out. But
March came with cold rains of whole days, and with suns that might
overheat but could not be trusted to warm you. The last Sunday of
January I found ice in the Colosseum; but that was the only time I saw
ice anywhere in Rome. In March, however, in a moment of great
exasperation from the mountains, it almost snowed. Yet that month would
in our climate have been remembered for its beauty and for a prevailing
kindness of temperature. The worst you could say of it was that it left
the spring in the Capuchin garden where it found it.
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