We have a row of peaches ripening in the sun
on our window-sills and it is necessary to inspect these and condemn the ripest to capital punishment before break- fast. That done we seek the honey-pot on the balcony and sit watching it hungrily till the little cart with its cargo of fresh rolls conies toiling up from the valley. Sometimes the little cart is late, and then not all the gentians and white starry flowers in My Lady's Little Fields across the road can comfort us. But often girls with baskets of wild strawberries linger seductively before our eyes and the taste of these strawberries saturated with sunlight does well enough for filling in time. The rolls come at last, then piccola Teresina with the coffee and all is as it should be. Once again Madonna presiding over the honey-pot has woven her magic spell. If I knew the Italian for honey-pot or bees I should re- christen this mountain place fitly—Madonna di Appiglio, My Lady of the Little Bees (?). For these bees distil a rich, thick, golden liquor that is almost intoxicating in its sweetness. We sit in a faint stupor till some idiot with hobnail boots and a spiked stick bounces out of it albergo to drag us up a glacier from whose summit, he says, we shall see all Italy and Austria spread out below us as on a contour map. Does not he realize that we are perfectly content with this corner ? But of course, we yield.
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