"I don't agree with you," I said. "I can understand you, whereas I can't even tell what language he is speaking." "He comes from Brazil, and was given to me by a lady." "Does he only speak Brazilian?" I asked. "Oh no, he can speak a little Italian; he can say 'Io t'amo' and 'Caro mio'." "That shows how well the lady educated him. Will he not say 'Io t'amo' for me? I should so love to hear him." But, in spite of tender pleadings, the parrot refused to do anything but scream in his native tongue. Garibaldi talked Italian in a soft voice with his friend and French to us. He asked a few questions as to our nationality, and made some other commonplace remarks. When I told him I was an American he seemed to unbend a little, and said, "I like the Americans; they are an honorable, just, and intelligent people." He must have read admiration in my eyes, for he "laid himself out" (so his friend said) to be amiable. Amiability toward strangers was evidently not his customary attitude. He went so far as to give me his photograph, and wrote "Miss Moulton" on it with a hand far from clean; but it was the hand of a brave man, and I liked it all the better for being dirty. It seemed somehow to belong to a hero. I think that I would have been disappointed if he had had clean hands and well-trimmed finger-nails. On our taking leave of him he conjured up a wan smile and said, very pleasantly, giving us his ink- stained hand, "A rivederci." [Illustration: GIUSEPPE GARIBALDI] I wondered if he really meant that he wanted to see us again; I doubt it, and did not take his remark seriously. On the contrary, I had the feeling that he was more than indifferent to the pleasure our visit had given him. When we were driving back to Rome the horses took fright and began running away. They careered like wildfire through the gates of the Porta del Popolo, and bumped into a cart drawn by oxen and overloaded with wine- casks. Fortunately one of the horses fell down, and we came to a standstill. The coachman got down from the box and discovered that one of the wheels was twisted, the pole broken, and other damage done. We were obliged to leave the carriage and walk down the Corso to find a cab. Just as we were getting into one we saw on the opposite side of the street a man who, while he was cleaning the windows in the third story of a house, lost his balance and fell into the street. We dreaded to know what had happened, and avoided the crowd which quickly collected, thus shutting out whatever had happened from our view. We hurried home, trembling from our different emotions.