ll filled his stomach he went
and hid himself in the oven.

In the meanwhile his mother returned, and stood knocking for a long
time at the door; but at last, seeing that no one came, she gave it a
kick; and going in, she called her son at the top of her voice. But as
nobody answered, she imagined that some mischief must have happened,
and with increased lamentation she went on crying louder and louder,
"Vardiello! Vardiello! are you deaf, that you don't hear? Have you the
cramp, that you don't run? Have you the pip, that you don't answer?
Where are you, you rogue? Where are you hidden, you naughty fellow?"

Vardiello, on hearing all this hubbub and abuse, cried out at last with
a piteous voice, "Here I am! here I am in the oven; but you will never
see me again, mother!"

"Why so?" said the poor mother.

"Because I am poisoned," replied the son.

"Alas! alas!" cried Grannonia, "how came you to do that? What cause
have you had to commit this homicide? And who has given you poison?"
Then Vardiello told her, one after another, all the pretty things he
had done; on which account he wished to die and not to remain any
longer a laughing-stock in the world.

The poor woman, on hearing all this, was miserable and wretched, and
she had enough to do and to say to drive this melancholy whimsey out of
Vardiello's head. And being infatuated and dotingly fond of him, she
gave him some nice sweetmeats, and so put the affair of the pickled
walnuts out of his head, and convinced him that they were not poison,
but good and comforting to the stomach. And having thus pacified him
with cheering words, and showered on him a thousand caresses, she drew
him out of the oven. Then giving him a fine piece of cloth, she bade
him go and sell it, but cautioning him not to do business with folks of
too many words.

"Tut, tut!" said Vardiello, "let me alone; I know what I'm about, never
fear." So saying, he took the cloth, and went his way through the city
of Naples, crying, "Cloth! cloth!" But whenever any one asked him,
"What cloth have you there?" he replied, "You are no customer for me;
you are a man of too many words." And when another said to him, "How do
you sell your cloth?" he called him a chatterbox, who deafened him with
his noise. At length he chanced to espy, in the courtyard of a house
which was deserted on account of the Monaciello, a plaster statue; and
being tired out, and wearied with going about and about, he sat himself
do