s.

I said: "What about the plates, Turiddu? Don't the people throw the
crockery out of window in their joy? We must be careful."

He replied that they only do that in the poorer parts of the town, and
they always look first to make sure that no one is passing. But we had
better be careful, all the same, because the revolvers are loaded and the
squibs are dangerous.

He took me past the municipio, where the band was playing, and we came to
a sweet-shop, where paschal lambs made of almond paste and sugar were
flocking together on all the tables and shelves. They were not like the
one at the Last Supper, they were in their fleeces and were standing or
lying among candied fruits and tufts of dried grass that had been
artificially dyed unlikely colours. Turiddu chose one, and I sent him
off home with it as an Easter offering of goodwill to his mother.

Peppino Fazio was standing at a kiosk near the Quattro Canti with two
young cousins, buying button-holes of violas; he gave me the one he had
intended for himself.

"Wear this," he said, "it is the primavera. Proserpine has risen from
the underworld, she has returned to Enna and is scattering flowers again.
Stay; let us exchange; I will take another bunch and you shall pay the
man for it one soldo. Buona Pasqua."

So we exchanged bunches. "Wear this," I said, echoing his words, "it is
the primavera; the time for visiting sepulchres is over. Proserpine has
sent these flowers down from Castrogiovanni by the morning train. Buona
Pasqua."

In the next piazza, in the shadow of the statue of Bellini, was one of
the men from the Teatro Machiavelli; he had brought out his dog and
talked of going a-birding, he hoped it was not too early for quail, he
had already seen ripe strawberries in the market. Buona Pasqua.

Then I came upon Joe, the Policeman, keeping order in the street.

He said: "Buona Pasqua. You are very good-looking this morning." He
meant I was looking very well, but he will be so English.

I replied: "Buona Pasqua. But, my dear Joe, you ought not to be wearing
flowers in uniform, ought you?"

"It is the primavera," he said. He also told me that the revolvers and
the squibs and the plates had not done much damage this year--perhaps ten
or a dozen accidents, but none fatal, so far as was yet known.

I went along the Via Stesicoro, not considering my steps because I was
looking up the street, wondering how long the Gloria would take to melt
the