as the sun was sinking this saturday, the bells in the tower of the principal church began an unwonted clangor, and i was told that the squadrito relatives had paid for a special service at vespers for the safe journey and prosperity of our party. as we wound along our way to the village we could see little groups of people, some in holiday dress, and others, for the most part, in the clothes in which they left the fields, the wine-presses, the cheese-shops, the smithies and the orchards. as we entered the square we met one of the priests, a benign old man, one of the truest and best types of the sincere rural clergy i have ever seen. after taking a pinch of snuff, he offered the box to me with a quizzical smile, knowing full well the un-americanism of snuff. there was a hasty exchange of compliments and well-wishes, then he passed on to the sacristy.

jules breton has caught and put on canvas, more than once, the spirit of peasant piety which pervaded that vespers; the air of restful, provincial, old-world religious fixity, breathing through the richly colored and wonderfully picturesque scene in that ancient church.

around the tallow-encrusted base of the figure of san francesco, the patron saint of the village, flared the great yellow candles. a few glimmered on the altar. 119the figure stood on a pedestal a little to one side of the centre of the church. to the left, kneeling on the worn stones of the floor, or sitting on tiny rush-bottomed chairs, were the closely grouped women, some few in the coveted black-lace prayer-shawls, but the mass in the solid-colored commoner ones, drawn over the head and spreading out into a cone around the kneeling or sitting figure. these shawls, dark red, green, or yellow, treasured among the poor, made that night in the candle-light a softened color-scheme that is indescribable. to the right were the men and boys, clad for the most part in the baggy homespun worn in the fields, though here and there some villager boasted a suit from the tailor’s hands.

as we entered, an old man with furrowed face, horn spectacles and raucous voice, and a slender, raphael-faced boy, both in vestments, were chanting from well-thumbed books held into the light of the candles about the saint’s figure. overhead in the choir the old organ toiled uncertainly through the music of the service, and ever and anon the boy took up and rang the tinkling silver bell.

his clear, superb soprano voice was in fine contrast with that of the elder singer, but the whole scene, the portion of the service at the altar, the muffled murmur of the people repeating the forms, the rustle and stir as they knelt or rose, the shifting of the shadows on the wall, was all so strange, almost barbaric, yet so harmonious and beautiful that its very detail was evasive.

when the service was ended, the people, without haste or without form, gathered around the priest while he christened a tiny wailing infant, held up by the midwife, with the proud father at her side. 120they named it giuseppe. yet another to join the millions of giuseppes, giacomos and giovannis!

as we left the church, the father of the child followed us and bade us come to his house, where the christening was being celebrated. through the dark, narrow streets we wended our way to the other end of the town, climbed the stone stairs to an overcrowded upper room, and spent a politely sufficient length of time eating anise cakes and drinking sweet wine.

with the tact of womankind, my wife had brought some trinkets of american origin as a gift for the child, whereat the assemblage beamed its appreciation, and just before we left the father said to me aside, as if it was a secret he was keeping from his wife: “if i can save twenty more lire, the next one will be born in pittsburg, praise the holy mother.”

at home all the favored neighbors and relatives had gathered for a dance. the large room on the ground floor of the casa squadrito was ringed around with a double row of guests. whole families sat together, on the stairway were seated the youngsters already drowsy; crowding around the wide door opening into the street were the unbidden, but none the less interested and curious. the head of the mannino family, weary with the labors of his sixty years and the fatigue of a stiff, home-laundered collar, was nodding before the music struck up, occasionally raising his head to blink at the light solemnly and to make sure none of the young men were unduly near his daughter, the heiress of his hard-got wealth.

every one who had any heavy gold rings, bracelets or brooches, or any of the pretentious gold-mounted strands of old coral, which are handed down so carefully 121from mother to daughter, had them on, for a display of gold ornaments is a sure sign of rural social distinction. feet that were rarely shod were now encased in scarpi made by carmelo merlino and his fellow craftsmen in the village, and dress among women in the throng varied from a department store ready-made cloth gown sent home from america to a ragged working frock, the wearer of which kept her shoeless and stockingless feet shyly tucked out of sight.

all were awaiting our arrival, for antonio, who was with us, was host as well as chief musician. a home-made acetylene lamp, of the blacksmith brother’s contriving, was lighted and set high up on a bracket, throwing every object in the room, even to the boys perched in the transom, into sharp relief. the mandolins and guitars hanging on the wall were taken down, and with a skilful, brilliant prelude—for he is an excellent mandolin-player—antonio swept into one of the stirring, if monotonous time-honored tarantelle airs.

even though eyes were dancing in young faces all around the room, all were too shy to take the floor till, giovanina and maria squadrito urging into acquiescence two of the di bianca girls, the four formed a square and began a swaying, pirouetting movement, preceding the whirling and crossing over with the accompanying snapping of the fingers in imitation of the castanet, and the smiting of the tambourines. round and round they whirled, across and back, first one set of partners, then the other, the assemblage applauding a little shyly as yet.

the tarantelle is called after the black spiders about taranto, whose dangerous bites killed so many people early in the fifteenth century that many odd cures 122were proclaimed, and one that was officially advocated was music and dancing. i do not know whether the tarantelle dance which was evolved did the spider-victims any good, but a fanatical wave of dancing swept over the peninsula and the surrounding island, and the tarantelle became a fixture among the folk-customs of the southern provinces.

when the young girls were weary, an effort was made to get the young men out and into action, but all of them seemed to be in the throes of a monstrous diffidence. little giovanni squadrito, jr., and his small brother tono were not thus afflicted, and dragged out the di bianca boy, a handsome fellow, dressed in the best roman fashion, and another youngster who, though a child in years, had massive work-scarred hands. the four gave an exhibition of dancing that was delightful indeed, and when giovanni and tono went skipping about, their hobnailed shoes scratching and clattering on the tiles, their mother’s face beamed with real pride. although very weary with a hard day’s work preparing for the departure, she was among the brightest and merriest of the company.

then nicola, the blacksmith, and the shoemaker steamship agent, persuaded a third loutish youth to take the floor, but a fourth dancer was lacking. at the instant when the last of the other men had refused to take the floor as yet, the village butcher appeared in the door and was hailed with acclaim by those who knew his terpsichorean gifts. he glided into his place on the tiles, drew tighter the knot in his neckerchief, ran his hand through his saturday-night stubble of beard, tossed his hat to a friend and entered upon the most startling, dashing, withal graceful and self-contained feats in dance movements i have ever seen. 123he was on his tiptoes the greater part of the time and gave a perfect reproduction of the traditional dance.

then something happened that is rare—the men and women danced together, waltzing; and when, after a number of varied dances, tarantelle and square, a dance by the old folks was called for, the first person to respond was mrs. squadrito. in vain the people of his own age endeavored to get the slumber-smitten mannino on his feet. at last giovanina, who had been dancing almost constantly, filled the vacant place among the elder people, and the music broke forth once more. i caught my wife’s eyes turned to me in amazement, and i replied in kind. caterina squadrito, with fifty-five years of hard labor and the bearing and rearing of ten children behind her, danced a long round of the tarantelle with an ease, grace and abandon which put to shame the efforts of her youngest daughter. when she was gyrating and swaying in the middle of the floor, with all the mass of people about keeping time to the music, laughing and applauding, that room presented a picture which i shall never forget.

not long after this the mothers who were holding their sleeping children in their arms grew too weary of the burdens and started for home. the others made haste to follow and filed by us, bowing formally as they offered their hands, wishing us good-night and bon riposo.

sunday morning bright and early the entire family began that weekly process of cleaning and dressing up which is, i believe, general in all rural districts of christian countries. little ina was arrayed in a pretty little white dress, with a long white veil, and on her head was set a wreath of artificial leaves and white 124flowers. going by in the street were others. it being her last sunday, all of her little friends put on their festa dress in her honor, and a procession of the children was held from a church in another quarter of the village to the one on the square.

in the afternoon camela took little ina by the hand and set off for some place by herself. i noticed that a sort of solemnity pervaded the household; that she was crying as she went; that no one offered to accompany her; and that she carried a large bouquet of flowers. i soon learned that she had climbed the hill behind the town to the graveyard on its summit, to spend the last hours she could ever spend beside the graves of her father and her mother.

there were renewed streams of visitors later in the day, and at night a pleasant gathering at the home of the giuntas, where we were shown, among other things, a very fine collection of old jewelry, inherited by our hostess from an aunt. in this company there were fewer people, and they were more select as village society goes than the large gathering at the squadritos’ the night before. antonio, being very popular in the village, and quite democratic despite his prosperity, had asked humble and pretentious alike to his home, and neither caste gave a sign, such as they would have given on the street, that they were not of the same strata. there are some very fine and delicate things in italian social customs. before we left we were bidden to a little garden party which mrs. giunta had planned for us on the afternoon of the next day. it was to be held on a scrap of an estate owned by the family, situated up the torrente a short distance.

ina and her friends in procession to the church for farewell blessings

that night, after we had returned home, we were 125serenaded by a troupe of the village male vocalists, who wandered about until near dawn. the boy, salvatore vazzana, whom i have mentioned as singing in the church, sang “luna, o luna,” with a triple guitar accompaniment. the serenaders were then standing in the white moonlight at a point down by the torrente wall, so that in the stillness the clear, sweet voice and the throbbing, twanging compagnamento carried to every part of the town and came back faintly from the farther hills.

the giuntas are a large family. all the present heads of separate households are the children of one aged woman, still living in gualtieri, who has given birth to twenty-two, all told. most of these are living, and nearly all have prospered. one is the only man in italy who can stop a government train, even the brindisi express, in any spot beside the track where he may appear. he shows his badge as inspector-general, and the train pulls up and takes him on. this attribute was related to us by every fresh group of people we met in the community, and he is considered by them to be a very wonderful man indeed. our host, on the sunday evening before mentioned, is one of the few men who own land about gualtieri or in the district controlled by the duke of avarna.

monday afternoon he and his wife and one or two other guests called for us at the house, and, accompanied by antonio, giovanina, maria, camela, little ina, giovanni, jr., and tono, we walked over the torrente path, in the blazing sun, to the gate of one of his farms of garden size. at the gate we met his brother, the village doctor, bound ahorse to see some patients higher up in the mountains. after looking over the splendidly cultivated place and inspecting the 126irrigation devices, very old and clumsy, but none the less effective, we sat down to a repast of fruits of more sorts than i can remember and name. the photograph of the party in the garden tells its own story. if all landowners in italy dealt as mercifully with their tenants as our host appeared to deal with his people, there would be a different story to tell of southern italy to-day.

monday evening was a time of turmoil. first of all the great mass of trunks was got off to the station before dark. then those who had delayed till the last minute to bring messages for friends and to bid us farewell appeared. i took all the messages, but drew the line at presents for relatives in missouri, especially twenty-pound forms of cheese and five-gallon cans of olive oil. in the squadrito household there was too much excitement for great grief, only now and then one of the members would break out with a wail and throw his or her arms around some one of those who were to go. by eleven o’clock everything was packed up, and antonio mandatorily dismissed all the neighbors and sent everybody to bed. as the silence of the outer night crept into the house, there became audible the sobbing of the poor old mother as she lay thinking of the near separation from her own flesh and blood.

the heads of the weary and worn seemed scarcely to have touched their pillows before awakening voices rang in the house and street, the feeling of dread, chill exhaustion and discomfort that goes with sleep-breaking at one o’clock seemed to rest numbingly on every one. the tumultuous grief of the night before had given place to a sort of hushed woe. a short time to dress, a bite to eat, then into the dark, narrow streets 127with sleep-heavy eyes, to meet a crowd of hundreds come to see the party off. it is wonderful how little noise that concourse made as it moved out of the square, over the ancient bridge, to the beginning of the mountain road.

the parting with the mother and sisters occurred at the door of the squadrito home. the mother was so overcome with her sorrow that, shaken with dry sobs and murmuring broken blessings, her daughters, unable to speak themselves from weeping, loosened her arms from about antonio and camela and bore her to her couch.

at the edge of the village a group of donkeys was in readiness. here the crowd paused. not more than seventy-five elected to walk the seven miles to the station and back, and there were few relatives among them. antonio’s father was as completely broken down as if he was giving his favorite son and the others to the grave, instead of their departing for a happy land.

it was with difficulty that those natural leaders among the people effected the final separations, but at last, in the starlight, the two groups drew apart on the highway, the cavalcade with its foot retinue ascending along the face of the hill, the great, black mass of the crowd grouped about the end of the bridge shouting farewells. some one struck up a farewell song, several voices joined in, among them the vazzana boy’s clear soprano; but one by one they broke, and soon the song failed and ceased; and as the procession turned the corner that hid the town from view the long file of those left behind could be dimly seen moving back to the darkened homes.

it were ill indeed not to speak of “bella.” the day 128before, when donkeys were being hired for the ride to the station, i had been struck by the gentle and affectionate way in which she stood beside her owner’s young wife, and had marked her for my own. experience with the army mule of missouri extraction and his despised cousin, the mexican burro, should have made me less trustful.

for a half hour we cantered along in the dark, the babel of talk all about us. at the rougher places i held my camera carefully balanced on bella’s neck in front of me, in order that it be not banged against projecting rocks or by other laden beasts pressing close alongside at times. when one wishes to urge a sicilian donkey forward, one kicks him in the ribs and shouts high and nasally:

“ah-a-a-ah!”

we came to a sharp bend in the road, where it turned over a high bridge crossing a deep ravine. bella heard the braying of the lead donkey already across the bridge and on the other side of the ravine, and suddenly, without consulting me, turned aside and plunged, like a goat, from rock to rock down into the blackness of the ravine. i had been in the tail of the train, and no one missed me, i knew. she would not be checked on her downward course; in fact i was too busy clinging to the precious camera and holding on, to attempt to argue with her. the limbs of olive-trees and the raking thorns of the mura swept us from stem to stern. if she knew where she was going i felt very glad, for i certainly did not. high and faint above me i could hear the voices of the party. i was wondering what my chances were for getting out without a broken neck, when suddenly my fair beast struck level ground, and in an instant more a steep ascent. all sounds to 129show that the party was still in the vicinity had died away. the donkey went up that precipitous slope with an action that seemed nearly “hand over hand,” and, holding the strap of the camera in my teeth, i merely clung desperately about her neck. a stone loosened by her hoofs went crashing, down, down, down, and a cold sweat broke out on my brow.

but in a short time, without one misstep or one minute’s uncertainty, she made the climb, came out into a level open space, and stood stock still, looking to the left, and working her ears. i bent down and touched the ground with my fingers, encountering the warm, thick dust of the highway, and in a moment more heard the voices of our party as they turned a bend. bella had taken a short cut across the ravine. not having missed us they did not wonder how we had got so far ahead, and i said nothing about the matter.

soon we wound through the slumbering town of pagia. a head was now and then thrust out to murmur a sleepy “bona notte,” and when some one of us answered, “we go to america,” there was always a hearty, “bon viaggio e bona fortuna.”

just beyond the village we heard something, encountered often before, but never under such eerie surroundings. somewhere in the paths higher up, a shrill young voice raised a wild, plaintive song, and at the end of the first line held the note long drawn out and rounded, though nasal, while many other voices, men, women and children, struck in on a major chord and held it as long as they had breath. this was repeated over and over. it was a band of peasants already on their way to their distant work, singing in the plagal modes, in the darkness and loneliness of the hills.