On one large pile of wood, three women are standing, of a handsome, Italian type, and with classical forms—evidently grandmother, mother and daughter, for all have the same features,—and down below the pile stands a meagre, little, ugly fellow, like a dried skin, in a yellow-gray nankeen spencer with flaps, and pantaloons of no color, who shrieks and gesticulates, and with a violent torrent of words, accuses the women of something—I don't rightly understand what—probably of having taken some of the wood which he had collected. A well-dressed, elderly man, with the appearance of a gentleman, seemed to be the judge between the two parties. The women on the pile of wood, contented themselves with few words and great gesticulations, extending their arms and hands, as if accusing the little fellow, who seemed out of his senses, and darted about them like a bat. Spite of their proud bearing and handsome persons, and the extremely ridiculous figure he cut, it appeared to me that the right was not on their side. The peacemaker ended the quarrel, by taking the little yellow-gray man away with him, probably to draw up for him a formal accusation against the women. The youngest of these, a handsome, dark girl, with long, hanging plaits of hair, sent a contemptuous gesture after the two, as they retired from the scene.
Twilight came down, and one and all prepared to turn homeward with a part of their booty. The men dragged beams and boughs after them; the old women carried the smaller pieces which they had collected in baskets on their backs. Every body had something.
“Life is heavy for poor folks here in Piedmont,”
