“Behold; you can see the blood through the skin; they are all like this.” She showed an orange cut in half, the pulp ruby as a pomegranate. “Oh, the blood oranges of Palermo are famous, they bring a great price at Naples.” I bought a basket like a net; my _fruttaiuola_ filled it with citrons, lemons, oranges,--adding one of those rare winter melons Teodoro had recommended. From the market we made our way to the Marina, a beautiful curving avenue with fine palaces and gardens fronting the sea. “The Marina at Messina once looked like this,” sighed Patsy. Beyond the fashionable Marina we came upon a little fishing village. We peeped into one poor hut; it was filled with fisherman’s tools, fishing reels, lobster pots, old nets, broken oars. On the sunny outer wall hung a tiny crate filled with orange parings. “Every scrap of lemon, orange, or mandarin skin is saved, dried in the sun, and sold to make candied peel or mandarin liqueur,” Patsy pointed out. “Teodoro’s father was right. The Sicilian really is economical. Palermo could live on what spendthrift New York throws away!” The nets were spread on the sand to dry; the first catch of the day had been made; two old fishermen were busy weighing the silver fish from the boat drawn up on the beach. We watched a barchetta come in; she danced prettily over the water, curtseying to the craft home before her. On her prow was painted a picture of the Madonna; the big brown sail had a red cross for luck. “_Spugni! spugni di Trapani!_” A _gobbo_ with a crate of sponges stopped to show us his wares. “Sponges of Trapani!” cried Patsy; “why that Trapani is Drapana, where the old Anchises died, where pious Aeneas founded the games in his memory. As we can’t get to Trapani, let’s have one of its sponges!” He laid in a supply, not yet exhausted. How precious now is every little thing from Sicily--even the outworn gloves, even the fine pear-shaped sponge from Trapani. “Have you noticed the street shrines?” Patsy pointed to a majolica medallion of Santa Rosalià let into the wall of a house. Two lighted candles and a mass of fresh violets stood before it. “I have not seen one neglected shrine in all Palermo; they are better kept than in any Italian city I know; we might be in Bavaria.” The busy gay streets of Palermo are filled with familiar names and escutcheons. Under a fine stone stemma bearing the arms of Charles the Fifth (the Pillars of Hercules and the enlacing scroll) appear the magic names of Edison and Singer. During those first happy days at Palermo, we forgot (or pretended to) the one absorbing preoccupation of the last three months; behaved, Patsy said, as if there had never been an earthquake; inevitably we were brought back to it as children after a holiday must return to school. At the Quattro Canti we met two sandwich men parading the streets with flaming signs on their backs. “_Seconda gita a Messina_, 8 francs!”