. Earthwork out of Tuscany. town gaped, the husband ad-mired ; but Mariota, with her square chinand high carriage, looked as straightly be-fore her, when in pale blue and silver-white. Madonna with the Babe and theholy deacons Stephen and Laurence stood,four months afterwards, within the shadowof the great church, and shone out to theday. I pay silent respect to strapping Mariotaand her baby-boy in the country of ILARIA, MARIOTA, BETTINA Then, when I am in Florence again, underthe spell of the city life, 1 lounge in theBorg Ognissanti, or across Arno in theqtiartiere San Niccolo, o
. Earthwork out of Tuscany. town gaped, the husband ad-mired ; but Mariota, with her square chinand high carriage, looked as straightly be-fore her, when in pale blue and silver-white. Madonna with the Babe and theholy deacons Stephen and Laurence stood,four months afterwards, within the shadowof the great church, and shone out to theday. I pay silent respect to strapping Mariotaand her baby-boy in the country of ILARIA, MARIOTA, BETTINA Then, when I am in Florence again, underthe spell of the city life, 1 lounge in theBorg Ognissanti, or across Arno in theqtiartiere San Niccolo, or out by San Fre-diano where Botticelli in his green old agepruned his vines, or in the pent streets be-tween the Via della Per-gola and Santa Croce,and watch the townsfolklead their lives of patch-work and easylaughter. I fear Ihave a taste for suchcompany, lam fondof verdure; 1 liketrees as well as men:every oakfor me hasits hamad-ryad inform-ing it. 1 likeflowers bet-ter thanmen;andthe mostbeautifulfl o w e r 1know is a. ^4^^ 165 EARTHWORK OUT OF TUSCANY: girl. I have a sweetheart in the Bargello, asyou shall hear. I believe she is one of Dona-tellos sowing ; but the critics are cannot trace Verocchios bluntened linea-ments in her, nor Minos peaksomeness,nor anything of Desiderio. She s not verypretty, but shes like a summer flower,say, a campanula ; and that is why I loveto watch her and talk to her in this grand-fatherly fashion. Bettina, I say to her, areyou, I wonder, twelve years old yet ? Youcannot be much more I think, for you havelet your bodice-strap slip off one of yourshoulders and betray you to the sun. Youare but a round rosebud now and no onethinks any harm ; but some day the sunwill look at you in an odd way, and then,suddenly, you will be ashamed, and drawyour frock right up to your neck. And your hair strays where it likes atpresent. I know you have a golden filletof box-leaves round your brow: that isbecause you are only a little girl still, notmo
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