Blue smoke rolls away on the north-wind,
Blue skies grow dusk in the din,
Blue waters look dark with the shadow
That gathers the world within.
Rigid and blue are the fingers
That clutch at the fading sky;
Blue lips in their agony mutter:
'O God! let this cup pass by.'
Blue eyes grow weary with watching;
Strong hands with waiting to do;
While brave hearts echo the watchword:
'Hurrah! for the Red, White, and Blue.'




_MACCARONI AND CANVAS._

IV.

THE FAIR AT GROTTO FERRATA.

No matter how well and hearty you may be, if you are in Rome, in summer,
when the _scirócco_ blows, you will feel as if convalescent from some
debilitating fever; in winter, however, this gentle-breathing south-east
wind will act more mildly; it will woo you to the country, induce you to
sit down in a shady place, smoke, and 'muse.' That incarnate essence of
enterprise, business, industry, economy, sharpness, shrewdness, and
keenness--that Prometheus whose liver was torn by the vulture of cent