, boiled fowls, honey and sour milk. This repast is served upon
flat shallow dishes of wood or earthenware a foot and a half in
diameter, the universal platter of Kabylia, and must be a highly
acceptable surprise in the desert. Wine is not a part of the required
ration, the native grapes, though delicious when eaten, not performing
well in the press and vat. Efforts are in progress to remedy this defect
and make Algeria a wine-exporting country, but the summer heat is
probably too great, and the northern edge of the vine-zone will
doubtless maintain its supremacy over the southern, and make the Loire,
the Rhine and the Middle Danube lords of the vintage for all time. Yet
there is no more pacifying industry than wine-making, whatever may be
said of wine-drinking; and the French anxiety to turn the Kabylian caves
into wine-vaults is sensible and laudable.

EDWARD C. BRUCE.

A PADUAN HOLIDAY.

On the morning of Sant' Antonio's Day we strolled through the streets of
Padua, side by side with the country-folk who had come from miles around
to offer up their prayers at the shrine of the saint. Some rode jaded
mules or were packed close in great market-wagons. Others trudged on
foot, with their dinners tied up in blue cotton handkerchiefs. There
were bronzed men in homespun, who pushed steadily on, aiding themselves
with mighty umbrellas; dark-eyed girls, with bright kerchiefs knotted
about their heads or carnations in their glossy braids; smart young
_contadini_, with their hats tied afresh with ribbons and their long
blue hose darned anew. The murmurs of the crowd, loud and merry and full
of bursts of laughter, softened into a solemn whisper as the multitude
pressed onward to the broad piazza where the sanctuary of Sant' Antonio
stands.

One by one the people lifted the leathern curtain of the church-door.
The men doffed their hats, the women told their beads. An awed hush fell
upon those simple peasants as they gazed up at the vastness of the
arches. The world of the winepress and the silk-weaving and the soup-pot
vanished from their hearts, and in its place came the illimitable calm
which holds them bowed for hours against the altar-steps. But now they
press on toward the shrine of the saint. The choir bursts into a
triumphant shout that seems to come from the throats of the bronze
angels about the altar. The chancel is a blaze of light, against which
stand two gre