The name of Italy is my nightingale: I feel that somebody lives that I love, and is ill-treated shamefully, crying out to me for help.

My father had to run away to save his life.

He was fifteen days lying in the rice-fields to escape from the soldiers--which makes me hate a white coat.

There was my father; and at night he used to steal out to one of the villages, where was a good, true woman--so they are, most, in Italy! She gave him food; maize-bread and wine, sometimes meat; sometimes a bottle of good wine.

When my father thinks of it he cries, if there is gin smelling near him.