he had become assimilated to the animals he tended.  The other, who played the piffero, was a man of middle age, stout, vigorous, with a forest of tangled black hair, and dark quick eyes that were fixed steadily on the Virgin, while he blew and vexed the little brown pipe with rapid runs and nervous fioriture, until great drops of sweat dripped from its round open mouth.  Sometimes, when he could not play fast enough to satisfy his eagerness, he ran his finger up and down the vents.  Then, suddenly lowering his instrument, he would scream, in a strong peasant-voice, verse after verse of the novena, to the accompaniment of the zampogna.  One was like a slow old Italian vettura all lumbered with luggage and held back by its drag; the other panting and nervous at his work as an American locomotive, and as constantly running off the rails.  Both, however, were very earnest at their occupation.  As they stood there playing, a little group gathered round.  A scamp of a boy left his sport to come and beat time with a stick on the stone step before them; several children clustered near; and two or three women, with rosy infants in their arms, also paused to listen and sympathize.  At last the playing ceased.  The pifferari took up their hats and looked smilingly round at us.

“Where do you come from?” I asked.

“Eh!” said the piffero, showing all his teeth, and shrugging his shoulders good-naturedly, while the other echoed the pantomime.

“Dal Regno”—­for so the Abruzzi peasants call the kingdom of Naples.

“And do you come every year?”

“Si, Signore.  Lui” (indicating his friend) “ed io” (pointing to himself) “siam’ compagni per trenta tre anni.  E siam’ venut’ a Roma per far la noven’ ogn’ anno."[B]

[Footnote B:  “He and I have been companions for thirty-three years, and every year we have come to Rome to play the novena.”]

To this the old zampogna bent his head on one side, and said, assentingly,—­“Eh! per trenta tre anni.”—­

And, “Ecco,” continued the piffero, bursting in before the zampogna could go on, and pointing to two stalwart youths of about twenty-two or-three years of age, who at this moment came up the street with their instruments,—­“These are our two sons.  He is mine,”—­indicating one with his reversed thumb; “and that other is his,”—­jerking his head towards his companion.  “And they, too, are going to play in company, as we do.”

“For thirty-three years more, let us hope,” said I.

“Eh! speriamo,” (Let us hope so,) was the answer of the piffero, as he showed all his teeth in the broadest of smiles.  Then, with a motion of his hand, he set both the young men going, he himself joining in, straining out his cheeks, blowing all the breath of his body into the little pipe, and running up and down the vents with a sliding finger, until finally he brought up against a high, shrill note, to which he gave the full force of his lungs, and, after holding it in loud blast for a moment, startled us by breaking off, without gradation, into a silence as sudden as if the music had snapped short off, like a pipe-stem.