“‘And now put it on again,’ said Saint Peter. The smith tried, but it would not stick. “‘The horse is bleeding to death rapidly,’ remarked the Saint. “‘I believe,’ said the smith ruefully, ‘that I am a fool in folio.’ “‘_Più matto che un granchio_—as crazy as a crawfish,’ solemnly added one of his assistants. “‘_Pazzo a bandiera_—as wild and witless as a flapping flag,’ quoth another. “‘_Matto di sette cotte_—an idiot seven times baked,’ chimed in Saint Peter. “‘A _campanile_—a church bell-tower of a fool,’ contributed his wife, who had just come in. “The poor horse continued to bleed. “‘You are like the mouse,’ added a neighbour, ‘who thought because he had dipped the end of his tail in the meal, that he owned and could run the mill.’ “‘The Florentine method of shoeing horses,’ remarked Saint Peter gravely, ‘does not appear to be invariably successful. I think that we had better recur to mine.’ And with this he put the hoof to the ankle, and _presto_! the miracle was wrought again. That is the story. In most cases, Signore, _un pazzo gitta una pietra nel pozzo_—a fool rolls a rock into a well which it requires a hundred wise men to get out again. This time a single sage sufficed. But for that you must have the Lord at your back, as Saint Peter had.” “Why do they say, as foolish as a crawfish or lobster?” I inquired. “Because, Signore, the _granchio_, be he lobster or crawfish, carries his head in the _scarsella_, which is a hole in his belly. Men who have their brains in their bellies—or gluttons—are generally foolish. But what is the use of boasting of our wisdom? He who has neither poor men nor fools among his relations was born of the lightning or of thunder.” * * * * * There is another story current among the people, though it is in print, but as it is a merry one, belonging truly enough to the folk-lore of Florence, I give it as it runs: “You have heard of Piovano Arlotto, who made this our town so lively long ago. It was rich then, indeed. There are more flowers than florins in Florence now: _ogni fior non fa frutto_—all flowers do not bear fruit. “Well, it happened one day that Piovano, having heard a good story from Piero di Cosimo de’ Medicis, answered with another. Now the tale which Messer Piero di Cosimo told was this: “Once there lived in Florence a poor shoemaker, who went every morning to the Church of San Michele Berteldi—some say it was at San Bartolommeo, and maybe at both, for a good story or a big lie is at home anywhere. “Well, he used to pray before a John the Baptist in wood, or it may have been cast in plaster, or moulded in wax, which was on the altar. One morning he prayed scalding hot, and the _chierico_—a boy who waits on the priest, who was a young rascal, like all of his kind—overheard him say: ‘Oh, Saint John, I pray thee make known to me two things. One is whether my wife is good and true to me, and the other what will become of my only son.’