with bottles of milk packed in straw.

Entering Campo San Bartolomeo, I found trade already astir in that noisy
place; the voice of cheap bargains, which by noonday swells into an
intolerable uproar, was beginning to be heard. Having lived in Campo San
Bartolomeo, I recognized several familiar faces there, and particularly
noted among them that of a certain fruit-vender, who frequently swindled
me in my small dealings with him. He now sat before his stand, and for a
man of a fat and greasy presence, looked very fresh and brisk, and as if
he had passed a pleasant night.

On the other side of the Rialto Bridge, the market was preparing for the
purchasers. Butchers were arranging their shops; fruit-stands, and stands
for the sale of crockery, and--as I must say for want of a better word, if
there is any--notions, were in a state of tasteful readiness. The person
on the steps of the bridge who had exposed his stock of cheap clothing and
coarse felt hats on the parapet, had so far completed his preparations as
to have leisure to be talking himself hot and hoarse with the neighboring
barber. He was in a perfectly good humor, and was merely giving a dramatic
flavor to some question of six soldi.

At the landings of the market-place squadrons of boats loaded with
vegetables were arriving and unloading. Peasants were building cabbages
into pyramids; collective squashes and cucumbers were taking a picturesque
shape; wreaths of garlic and garlands of onions graced the scene. All the
people were clamoring at the tops of their voices; and in the midst of the
tumult and confusion, resting on heaps of cabbage-leaves and garbage, men
lay on their bellies sweetly sleeping. Numbers of eating-houses were
sending forth a savory smell, and everywhere were breakfasters with bowls
of sguassetto. In one of the shops, somewhat prouder than the rest, a