The Suitor and the Picture
A certain man of Celento having come to Naples to attend to a law-suit, was forced to take a house; and in order to be near the Vicaria,36 he took one close to the Convent of San Giovanni a Carbonara. In this house he found an old picture hanging on the wall, all black and grimed with smoke, to which, thinking it to represent some saint, he recommended himself most fervently every time he left the house, praying that he might be preserved from every misfortune, find a good lawyer, and gain his case. The first time he said his prayers before this picture, on returning home at night, he was attacked and beaten by thieves. On the next day he fell down the stairs and bruised himself all over; and on the third he was arrested and imprisoned for a theft which had been committed near his lodging. On coming out of prison he once more addressed his prayers to the unknown image for a good lawyer; but this petition, too, was granted the wrong way, for he fell into the hands of one who was the greatest scoundrel and blunderer that could be imagined. The poor Celentano, quite broken down by his troubles, redoubled his prayers to the smoky picture in hopes of at least gaining his law-suit; but after this last attempt, seeing that things were going from bad to worse, he came home, no longer able to contain himself. “Now,” he said, “I want to see what the picture is which has gained me so many benefits from Heaven, and worked so many miracles in my favour.” He therefore took it down from the wall, and, after having carefully cleaned it, perceived that it represented a lawyer in his robes. Whereat he cried, “Ah! thou accursed race! none other could have worked such miracles! A fine saint I had chosen as my protector!” And therewith he cut the picture in pieces and threw it into the fire.
A peasant of Chiaramonte,37 returning home by moonlight, on his ass, with two panniers of fresh-plucked grapes, passed by a cypress-tree, on which an owl was sitting. The owl began to hoot and moan in so piteous a manner that it seemed as though he would moan out his very heart. Poor Vito (every Chiaramonte man is called Vito) was a fool, but he had a kind heart, and he was saddened by the moaning of the owl, thinking that perhaps he was hungry. So, overcome by compassion, he called out, “Owl of mine, dost thou want a bunch of grapes?” The owl went on hooting “Cciù.”38 “How? Is one bunch not enough?—dost thou want two?” “Cciù.” “Oh! how hungry thou must be!—dost want a basketful?” “Cciù.” “But—holy Death! thou art insatiable!—perhaps thou wouldst like the whole pannier?” “Cciù!” “Go to the devil! I have a wife and children, and I cannot give thee everything!”