“It was sun,” said Peppino, “and we was in Venice, Sammarco Place, where is—how speak you the colomba?—Excuse me, it is the dove. And there was different other people also—love-people, the young ones that go to the field in the spring to take the flower Margherita, and to be pulling the leaves to know the future, plenty many; also sposi, and some that bring the macchina to make the picture, and the bride was to be standing with the colomba in the hand. She put the grain in the hand, and would have a colomba that was with his feet in her finger and eat the grain; but the bridegroom was not clever to take the photograph and the colomba was—what is it?—he was finish his grain and flied away, and she was telling to her sposo:
“‘Now you are not clever to take the photograph and you shall be obliged to pay for another packet of grain.’
“In the second time, not only a colomba was in the hand but also another one was stopping in the hat very large with the colomba, too large, I am not certain that the bridegroom was able to take all the photograph.”
Whereupon Brancaccia interposed, producing the result, and I exclaimed:
“Why, it is Brancaccia herself! I did not know you meant that this happened to you. I thought you were telling me about other sposi, not about yourselves.”
Then they laughed together, and I saw that Brancaccia, by showing me the photograph, had let out more than was
intended, unless perhaps it was all intended; either way, no harm was done, and I was allowed to put the picture in my pocket.
Carmelo came to clear away the tea, and I said:
“It seems to me, Peppino, that you have a new waiter. What has become of Letterio?”
“Ah! you do not know about Letterio. Now I shall tell you.”