n no need of
pokers and coal hods: he was mistaken. Awaking one morning to the fact
that it was cold, he began an examination of his rooms for a fireplace:
there was none. He searched for a chimney--in vain. He went to see his
landlady about it: she was standing on a balcony, superintending the
engineering of a bucket in its downward search for water. The house was
five stories high, and from each story what appeared to be a lightning
rod ran down into what seemed to be a well, in a small garden. Up and
down these rods, tin buckets, fastened to ropes, were continually
running, rattling, clanking down, or being drawn splashing, dripping up;
and as they were worked assiduously, it made lively music for those
dwelling in the back part of the house.

Having mentioned to the landlady that he wanted a fire, the good woman
reflected a moment, and then directed the servant to haul out a sheet
iron vessel mounted on legs: this was next filled with charcoal, on
which was thrown live coals, and the entire arrangement being placed
outside the door on the balcony, the servant bent over and fanned it
with a turkey feather fan. Caper looked on in astonishment.

'Are you going to embark in the roast chestnut trade?' he asked.

'_Ma che!_' answered madame; 'that is your fire.'

'It will bring on asphyxia.'

'We are never asphyxied in Rome with it. You see, the girl fans all the
venom out of it; and when she takes it into your room it will be just as
harmless as--let me see--as a baby without teeth.'

This comparison settled the question, for it proved it wouldn't bite.
Caper managed to worry through the cold weather with this poor consoler:
it gave him headaches, but it kept his head otherwise cool, and his feet
warm; and, as he lived mostly in his studio, where he had a good wood
stove, he was no great loser.

'But,' said he, descanting on this subject to Rocjean, 'how can the
Romans fight for their firesides, when they haven't any?'

'They will fight for their _scaldine_, especially the old women and the
young women,' answered Rocjean, 'to the last gasp. There is nothing they
stick to like these: even their husbands and lovers are not so near and
dear to them.'

'What are they? and, how much do they cost?' asked Caper, artistically.

'Crockery baskets with handles; ten _baiocchi_,' replied Rocjean, 'You
must have noticed them; why, look out of that window: do you see that
girl in the house opposite. She has one on the windo