at night sleep in some cool sheltering corner of the
street. And then, too, there was always a better
chance of picking up something to eat. Plenty of
fig skins and melon parings were flung carelessly out
into the street when fruit was plentiful, and people
would often throw away the remains of a bunch
of grapes. It was wonderful how quickly Filippo
learned to know people's faces, and to guess who
would finish to the last grape and who would throw
the smaller ones away. Some would even smile as
they caught his anxious, waiting eye fixed on the
fruit, and would cry `Catch' as they threw a goodly
bunch into those small brown hands that never let
anything slip through their fingers.

Oh, yes, summer was all right, but there was always
winter to face. To-day he was so very hungry, and
the lupin skins which he had collected for his breakfast
were all eaten long ago. He had hung about
the little open shops, sniffing up the delicious smell
of fried polenta, but no one had given him a morsel.
All he had got was a stern `be off' when he ventured
too close to the tempting food. If only this day
had been a festa, he might have done well enough.
For in the great processions when the priests and
people carried their lighted candles round the church,
he could always dart in and out with his little iron
scraper, lift the melted wax of the marble floor and
sell it over again to the candlemakers.