blackbird pie of famous memory. In it sat eight chickens of an age to
make their début on the platter, all settled into a fluffy, soft-gray
cushion, out of which their little heads and necks and half-raised
wings peeped and turned and fluttered in a manner that testified to the
agitation of their spirits. The woman carrying this basket would have
made a pretty caryatid, chickens and all, so straight was she, so
robust her shoulders and so full and regular the oval of her face.

The cattle were superb--some immensely large, others delicately small,
and all with such long, slim, pointed horns as made one shrink. Those
strong, high-lifted heads carried their weapons like unsheathed
scymitars. Red cords were twined across their foreheads from horn to
horn, and red tassels swung beside their faces. This procession passed
in almost entire silence, with only a pattering of hoofs that sounded
like heavy rain.

Presently appeared a light wagon in which sat alone a large fleshy
woman, who had quite the expression of one making a triumphal entry
into the city. Her black hair was elaborately dressed in braids
fastened with gold pins and in short curls on the forehead, and was
lightly covered with a black lace veil. Her dress was a sky-blue silk,
with a lace shawl carefully draped over the wide shoulders. Her hands
were loaded with rings and her neck with gold chains, and a large
medallion swung over two large brooches. There was a smile of conscious
superiority on her coarsely-handsome face as she glanced over the
contadini, who humbly made way for her. A small, meek, well-dressed man
who walked beside the wagon seemed to be the proprietor of its
occupant, and to be somewhat oppressed by his good fortune. There was
no room for him in the wagon. It occurred to me that this might be an
avatar of the old woman of Banbury Cross.