should give good fishing."

In the town they were having a procession. Peter heard the chanting as
they passed, saw, through the archways into the streets, glimpses of it.
He heard their plaintive hymn that entreated pity:

"Difendi, O Caterina
Da peste, fame e guerra,
Il popol di Cartoleto
In mare e in terra..."

Above the hymn rose the howls of little St. John the Baptist, who had
been, no doubt, suddenly mastered by his too high-spirited lamb and upset
on to his face, so that his mother had to rush from out the crowd to
comfort him and brush the dust from his curls that had been a-curling in
papers these three weeks past.

It was no doubt a beautiful procession, and Peter and Thomas loved
processions, but they had seen one that morning at Varenzano, so they
were content to see and hear this from a distance.

Why, Peter speculated, do we not elsewhere thus beautify and sanctify
our villages and cities and country places? Why do they not, in fishing
hamlets of a colder clime, thus bring luck to their fishing, thus summon
the dear saints to keep and guard their shores? Why, Peter for the
hundredth time questioned, do we miss so much gaiety, so much loveliness,
so much grace, that other and wiser people have?

Peter shook his head over it.