replied Noah.  “And what can I do for you?”

“Do not let me interrupt; you seem busy this morning.”

“Yes,” replied Noah; “I am planting the vine.”

“Oho!” said the Devil, “but this is rather interesting.”

So he slipped inside the field and took a seat on a large white stone.  Noah went on with his work.

A lion was prowling round and came through the gate which the Devil had carelessly left open.  The Devil killed the lion and watered the vine with its blood.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” said Noah testily.

The Devil paid no attention.  A monkey dropped down from a tree and came skipping up to them to see what was going on.  The Devil killed the monkey and watered the vine with its blood.

“Can’t you leave the poor beasts alone?” said Noah, who had always deprecated cruelty to animals, and was beginning to lose his temper.

The Devil paid no attention.  A pig was wallowing in the mud close by—there had been a good deal of rain lately.  The Devil killed the pig and watered the vine with its blood.

This was too much for Noah.  He shouted: “Haven’t

you got any work of your own to do, you lazy devil?”  He was so angry he forgot to say “Mr.”  “You had better go home; your dinner will be getting cold.”

“‘Hot’ you mean,” replied the Devil, looking for his hat, which had fallen behind the large white stone.  “What an ungrateful husbandman you are!  I have been helping you to make your wine.  When you have drunk the first glass, you will feel strong and behave furiously.  When you have drunk the second glass, you will forget how to think for yourself, you will imitate other people and behave foolishly.  When you have drunk the third glass—Need I continue?  I think not.  Good morning.”

Whereupon the Devil put his hands into his pockets, tucked his tail up under his left arm and swaggered away, thinking of his next job and whistling “La Donna è Mobile.”

“And the glass of Noah,” said Peppino in conclusion, “was containing one bottle.  Did you understand?  All right; I give you a medal.”

“I hope it will be a real medal and not like the idea of the girl.”

“We shall see.  Please take to drink the milk of Ricuzzu.”

The baby had had one bottle of milk, but there was another ready for him.  I said:

“My dear Peppino, I could not eat or drink another mouthful of anything.  I could not even eat a slice of Ricuzzu himself; besides, I don’t believe Carmelo knows how to cook babies—not so as to make them really tasty.”

Brancaccia understood enough to know we were talking about Ricuzzu.  She left off clearing away, and snatched the baby out of Carmelo’s arms, whispering to me: “I know it is all right, but I shall feel safer if I have him.”

Peppino, who was lying on his back, observed her agitation out of the corner of his eye and said to me, maliciously speaking Italian so that she should understand:

“If you would like to eat the baby, please say whether

Carmelo shall boil him or cut him up and stew him alla cacciatora.”

“Thank you, no.  I prefer Ricuzzu alive.”

“You are a bad papa,” said Brancaccia, “and the compare is a good man.”