'Sing, sack, Else thou wilt be beaten with a stick!' she was to sing lustily. Wherever they came he placed his sack on the ground, and addressed the above formula to it, when the poor girl sang as loud as she could: 'I am placed in this sack, Where my life I shall lose, For love of my ear-rings, Which I left in the stream.' The old man obtained much money from the audiences attracted by his singing leather bag. The authorities of one town, however, became suspicious, and, examining the sack while its owner was asleep, found and released the child. They filled up the bag with all the filth they could pick up, and left it where they had found it. The little girl was sent back to her mother. When the old man woke next morning, and took out the sack to earn his breakfast, the usual incantation had no effect, and when he applied the threatened stick the bag burst, and all the filth came out, which he was compelled to lick up by the enraged populace." At the close of the story the cigarettes glow, the white teeth gleam, the bushy whiskers wag, the old women chuckle, the girls giggle, and the youths snigger, and as the short twilight is now over, the group breaks up, and each vanishes into his or her own vermin-pasture to sleep until _amanhã_ has actually become to-day, and the sun shines on another exact repetition of yesterday. The Portuguese are superstitious, and are devout up to a certain point, and the clerics are exceedingly intolerant. In the morning one sees, as in all Roman Catholic countries, devout worshippers kneeling about in the churches before their favourite shrines, but, unlike the practice of most Roman Catholic countries, the churches are closed at or about noon for the most part, and are only open for special masses after that time. The procession of the Host is greeted with most extreme reverence, and whether it be in the fashionable Chiado at Lisbon or along a country lane, all uncover and make the sign of the cross, and many, even fashionably dressed ladies and gentlemen, kneel down and bow themselves humbly as the sacred wafer passes by, borne by the gorgeously vested priest; at least, in the cities the vestments are gorgeous, and a long train of acolytes and attendants makes the procession imposing, but in the country the vestments are often mildewed and decayed, and the one or two rustic attendants are not dignified in appearance. Still, the sacred symbol is the same, and the reverence and the devotion are the same.