gardener, and the Little Genius read it to us, to show the poetic
instinct of the discarded lover, and how well he had selected his
rebuke from the store of popular verses known to gondoliers and
fishermen of Venice:-


"No te fidar de l' albaro che piega,
Ne de la dona quando la te giura.
La te impromete, e po la te denega;
No te fidar de l' albaro che piega."

("Trust not the mast that bends.
Trust not a woman's oath;
She'll swear to you, and there it ends,
Trust not the mast that bends.")


Beppo, Salemina, and I were talking together one morning,--just a
casual meeting in the street,--when Peppina passed us. She had a
market-basket in each hand, and was in her gayest attire, a fresh
crimson rose between her teeth being the last and most fetching
touch to her toilet. She gave a dainty shrug of her shoulders as
she glanced at Beppo's hanging head and hungry eye, and then with a
light laugh hummed, "Trust not the mast that bends," the first line
of the poem that Beppo had sent her.

"It is better to let her go," I said to him consolingly.

"Si, madama; but"--with a profound sigh--"she is very pretty."