"Tapa cloth," said the little girl. "We get the bark off the tree, and then we go hammer, hammer, thump, thump, till all the hard thick stuff comes off;" and Lucy, looking near, saw that the substance was really all a lacework of fibre, about as close as the net of Nurse's caps.

"Is that all your clothes?" she asked.

"Yes, till I am a warrior," said the boy; "then they will tattoo my forehead, and arms, and breast, and legs."

"Tattoo! what's that?"

"Make little holes, and lines all over the skin with a sharp shell, and rub in juice that turns it all to blue and purple lines."

"But doesn't it hurt dreadfully?" asked Lucy.

"Hurt! to be sure it does, but that will show that I am brave. When Father comes home from the war, he paints himself white."

"White!"

"With lime made by burning coral, and he jumps and dances and shouts: I shall go to the war one of these days."

"Oh no, don't!" said Lucy, "it is horrid."

The boy laughed, but the little girl whispered, "Good white men say so. Some day Lavo will go and learn, and leave off fighting."

Lavo shook his head. "No, not yet; I will be brave chief and warrior first,—bring home many heads of enemies."

"I—I think it nice to be quiet," said Lucy; "and—and—won't you have some dinner?"

"Have you baked a pig?" asked Lavo.

"I think this is mutton," said Lucy, when the dish came up,—"it is sheep's flesh."

Lavo and his sister had no notion what sheep were. They wanted to sit cross-legged on the floor, but Lucy made each of them sit in a chair properly; but then they shocked her by picking up the mutton-chops and stuffing them into their mouths with their fingers.

"Look here!" and she showed the knives and forks.

"Oh!" cried Lavo, "what good spikes to catch fish with! and knife—knife—I'll kill foes! much better than shell knife."

"I can eat much better without," said Lavo.

"And I'll dig yams," said the sister.

"Oh no!" entreated Lucy, "we have spades to dig with, soldiers have swords to fight with, these are to eat with."

"I can eat much better without," said Lavo, but to please Lucy his sister did try; slashing hard away with her knife, and digging her fork straight into a bit of meat. Then she very nearly ran it into her eye, and Lucy, who knew it was not good manners to laugh, was very near choking herself. And at last, saying the knife and fork were "great good—great good; but none for eating," they stuck them through the great tortoiseshell rings they had in their ears and noses. Lucy was distressed about Uncle Joseph's knives and forks, which she knew she ought not to give away; but while she was looking about for Mrs. Bunker to interfere, Don seemed to think it his business, and began to growl and fly at the little black legs.

Lavo had climbed up the side of the door, and was sitting astride on the top of it.

"A tree, a tree!" cried the Ysabelites, "where's a tree?" and while they spoke, Lavo had climbed up the side of the door, and was sitting astride on the top of it, grinning down at the dog, and his sister had her feet on the lock, going up after him.

"Tree houses," they cried; "there we are safe from our enemies."

And Lucy found rising before her, instead of her own nursery, a huge tree, on the top of a mound.1 Basket-work had been woven between the branches to make floors, and on these were huts of bamboo cane; there were ladders hanging down made of strong creepers twisted together, and above and around the cries of cockatoos and parrots and the chirp of grasshoppers rang in her ears. She laid hold of the ladder of creeping plants and began to climb, but soon her head swam, she grew giddy, and called out to Lavo to help her. Then suddenly she found herself curled up in Mrs. Bunker's big beehive chair, and she wondered whether she had been asleep.

CHAPTER III. ITALY

"Suppose and suppose I could have such another funny dream," said Lucy. "Mother Bunch, have you ever been to Italy?" and she put her finger on the long leg and foot, kicking at three-cornered Sicily.

"Yes, Missie, that I have; come out of this cold room and I'll tell you."

Lucy was soon curled in her chair; but no, she wasn't! she was under such a blue, blue sky, as she had never dreamt of: clear sharp purple hills rose up against it. There was a clear rippling little fountain, bursting out of a rock, carved with old, old carvings, broken now and defaced, but shadowed over by lovely maidenhair fern and trailing bindweed; and in a niche above a little roof, sheltering a figure of the Blessed Virgin. Some way off stood a long low house propped up against the rich yellow stone walls and pillars of another old, old building, and with a great chestnut-tree shadowing over it. It had a balcony, and the gable end was open, and full of big yellow pumpkins and clusters of grapes hung up to dry, and some goats were feeding round.

Then came a merry, merry voice singing something about la vendemmia; and though Lucy had never learnt Italian, her wonderful dream knowledge made her sure that this meant the vintage, the grape-gathering; and presently there came along a little girl dancing and beating a tambourine, with a basket fastened to her back, filled to overflowing with big, beautiful bunches of grapes: and a whole party of other children, all loaded with as many grapes as they could carry, came leaping and singing after her; their black hair loose, or sometimes twisted with vine-leaves; their big black eyes dancing with merriment, and their bare brown legs with glee.

"Ah! Cecco, Cecco!" cried the little girl, pausing as she beat her tambourine.

"Ah! Cecco, Cecco!" cried the little girl, pausing as she beat her tambourine, "here's a stranger who has no grapes; give them here!"

"But," said Lucy, "aren't they your Mamma's grapes; may you give them away?"

"Ah, ah! 'tis the vendemmia! all may eat grapes; as much as they will. See, there's the vineyard."

Lucy saw on the slope of the hill above the cottage long poles such as hops grow upon, and vines trained about hither and thither in long festoons, with leaves growing purple with autumn, and clusters hanging down. Men in shady battered hats, bright sashes and braces, and white shirt sleeves, and women with handkerchiefs folded square over their heads, were cutting the grapes down, and piling them up in baskets; and a low cart drawn by two mouse-coloured oxen, with enormous wide horns and gentle-looking eyes, was waiting to be loaded with the baskets.

"To the wine-press! to the press!" shouted the children, who were politeness itself and wanted to show her everything.

The wine-press was a great marble trough with pipes leading off into other vessels around. Into it went the grapes, and in the midst were men and boys and little children, all with bare feet and legs up to the knees, dancing and leaping, and bounding and skipping upon the grapes, while the red juice covered their brown skins.

"Come in, come in; you don't know how charming it is!" cried Cecco. "It is the best time of all the year, the dear vintage; come and tread the grapes."

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