“Did you see my nosegay right in front?” said my landlady that evening. “It was the best there. I love that Madonnina; she saved us from the cholera and from diphtheria. They came right to the foot of the hill, but did not touch us.” “And it was the Madonnina that saved you?” I asked. “Of course. We took her in procession through the village, and where she passed there was no illness. It’s like the uncovering of the crucifix.” “What’s that?” I asked. “Oh, don’t you know? There’s a crucifix in the church; and when it rains and rains, and the chestnuts are spoiling, we uncover it, and then the rain stops at once.” “Why does it stop when you uncover the crucifix?” I rejoined. “Oh, Gesú likes it to be uncovered.” “Then why don’t you keep it always uncovered?” “Well, it’s not the uncovering, but the candles and prayers and incense that Gesú likes.” “Then Gesú must be vain,” remarked the woman’s husband, who is something of a heretic, “and the Church says that vanity is a sin.” Each village in the valley has its own special saint, whose feast is the great event of the year, and is observed with more honour than any other festival. Brass bands are borrowed from other villages which are fortunate (or unfortunate) enough to possess them, and the peasants flock in new dresses and bright kerchiefs to walk in procession, pray to the saint, eat, drink, and dance. These feasts are sometimes the occasion of amusing outcrops of the old pagan spirit. Last year, for example, there was a quarrel between the inhabitants of this village, and those of another, further down the valley. When Saint Celestina’s day came round, therefore, our people determined to spite their enemies, who honoured Saint Celestina as their special protector. Brass bands were borrowed, fireworks bought, a huge balloon manufactured, a ball arranged for the evening; no pains were spared, in fact, to render the feast so attractive that even the protection of the saint herself could not draw visitors to fill the purses of her legitimate worshippers. “But what must the saint have thought of all that?” I said, as my informant was gloating over the clever revenge. “The saint? Oh, she must have been delighted; she had such special honour that year.” Who can say that paganism is dead in this 19th century? Images, too, and small cushion-like hearts blessed by the priest on that special day, are supposed to be of peculiar efficacy against evil. Without the latter, the so-called _benediction_, no mother will dress her child. I once asked how the young women were chosen who carry the banner of the Madonna in the procession. “Oh, they’re chosen by lot,” was the answer. “Then it’s no particular honour, no reward for specially good character,” I remarked. “But of course it is. God makes the lot fall on the one whom He specially wishes; it’s the greatest honour a girl can have.”