At Gessopalena, in the province of Chieti (Abruzzo Citeriore) there would seem to be much faith in numbers. Luke and Andrew, Michael and Joseph, Hyacinth and Matthew are called in, and as if these were not enough to nurse one baby, a summons is sent to _Sant Giusaffat_, who, as is well known, is neither more nor less than Buddha introduced into the Catholic calendar. Another of Signor Dal Medico's _ninne-nanne_ presents several points of interest: O Sleep, O Sleep, O thou beguiler, Sleep, Beguile this child, and in beguilement keep, Keep him three hours, and keep him moments three; Until I call beguile this child for me. And when I call I'll call:--My root, my heart, The people say my only wealth thou art. Thou art my only wealth; I tell thee so. Now, bit by bit, this boy to sleep will go; He falls and falls to sleeping bit by bit, Like the green wood what time the fire is lit, Like to green wood that never flame can dart, Heart of thy mother, of thy father heart! Like to green wood, that never flame can shoot. Sleep thou, my cradled hope, sleep thou, my root, My cradled hope, my spirit's strength and stay; Mother, who bore thee, wears her life away; Her life she wears away, and all day long She goes a-singing to her child this song. Now, in the first place, the comparison of the child's gradual falling asleep with the slow ignition of fresh-cut wood is the common property of all the populations whose ethnical centre of gravity lies in Venice. I have seen an Istriot version of it, and I heard it sung by a countrywoman at San Martino di Castrozza in the Trentino; so that, at all event, _Italia redenta_ and _irredenta_ has a community of song. The second thing that calls for remark is the direct invocation of sleep. A distinct little group of cradle ditties displays this characteristic. "Come, sleep," cries the Grecian mother, "come, sleep, take him away; come sleep, and make him slumber. Carry him to the vineyard of the Aga, to the gardens of the Aga. The Aga will give him grapes; his wife, roses; his servant, pancakes." A second Greek lullaby must have sprung from a luxuriant imagination. It comes from Schio: Sleep, carry off my son, o'er whom three sentinels do watch, Three sentinels, three warders brave, three mates you cannot match. These guards: the sun upon the hill, the eagle on the plain, And Boreas, whose chilly blasts do hurry o'er the main. --The sun went down into the west, the eagle sank to sleep, Chill Boreas to his mother sped across the briny deep. "My son, where were you yesterday? Where on the former night? Or with the moon or with the stars did you contend in fight? Or with Orion did you strive--though him I deem a friend?" "Nor with the stars, nor with the moon, did I in strife contend, Nor with Orion did I fight, whom for your friend I hold, But guarded in a silver cot a child as bright as gold."