I like to think of him as still quietly happy amid his garden walls, tending flowers that grow over the dead at Cotrone.
On my way back again to the town, I took a nearer view of the ruined little church, and, whilst I was so engaged, two lads driving a herd of goats stopped to look at me.

As I came out into the road again, the younger of these modestly approached and begged me to give him a flower--by choice, a rose.

I did so, much to his satisfaction and no less to mine; it was a pleasant thing to find a wayside lad asking for anything but soldi.

The Calabrians, however, are distinguished by their self-respect; they contrast remarkedly with the natives of the Neapolitan district.

Presently, I saw that the boy's elder companion had appropriated the flower, which he kept at his nose as he plodded along; after useless remonstrance, the other drew near to me again, shamefaced; would I make him another present; not a rose this time, he would not venture to ask it, but "_questo piccolo_"; and he pointed to a sprig of geranium.