is the last ball which decides
the game, and, of course, it is eagerly watched. In the Piazza di
Termini numerous parties may be seen every bright day in summer or
spring playing this game under the locust-trees, surrounded by idlers,
who stand by to approve or condemn, and to give their advice. The French
soldiers, once free from drill or guard or from practising trumpet-calls
on the old Agger of Servius Tullius near by, are sure to be rolling
balls in this fascinating game. Having heated their blood sufficiently
at it, they adjourn to a little _osteria_ in the Piazza to refresh
themselves with a glass of _asciutto_ wine, after which they sit on a
bench outside the door, or stretch themselves under the trees, and take
a _siesta_, with their handkerchiefs over their eyes, while other
parties take their turn at the _bocce_. Meanwhile, from the Agger beyond
are heard the distressing trumpets struggling with false notes and
wheezing and shrieking in ludicrous discord, while now and then the
solemn bell of Santa Maria Maggiore tolls from the neighboring hill.

Another favorite game in Rome and Tuscany is _Ruzzola_, so called from
the circular disk of wood with which it is played. Round this the player
winds tightly a cord, which, by a sudden cast and backward jerk of the
hand, he uncoils so as to send the disk whirling along the road. Outside
the walls, and along all the principal avenues leading to the city,
parties are constantly to be met playing at this game; and oftentimes
before the players are visible, the disk is seen bounding round some
curve, to the great danger of one's legs. He whose disk whirls the
farthest wins a point. It is an excellent walking game, and it requires
some knack to play the disk evenly along the road. Often the swiftest
disks, when not well-directed, bound over the hedges, knock themselves
down against the walls, or bury themselves in the tangled ditches; and
when well played, if they chance to hit a stone in the road, they will
leap like mad into the air, at the risk of serious injury to any
unfortunate passer. In the country, instead of wooden disks, the
_contadini_ often use _cacio di pecora_, a kind of hard goat's cheese,
whose rind will resist the roughest play. What, then, must be the
digestive powers of those who eat it, may be imagined. Like the peptic
countryman, they probably do not know they have a stomach, not having
ever felt it; and certainly they can say with Tony Lumpkin, "It ne