Little shovels, also, were provided, for dealing out the tiny
missals of war upon the heads below. There were masks in waiting, some
to be tied on, while others terminated in a handle, by a skilful use of
which they could be made as effective as a Spanish lady's fan. Mae chose
one of these latter.
The Corso was alive with vendors of small bouquets and bon-bons and
little flying birds tied in live agony to round yellow oranges. The
fruit in turn was fastened to a long pole and so thrust up to the
balconies as a tempting bait. If bought, the birds and flowers were
tossed together into the streets to a passing friend. As Mae was gazing
rapturously over the balcony, laughing at the few stragglers hurrying
to the Piazza del Popolo, admiring the bannered balconies and gay
streamers, several of these little birds were thrust up to her face,
some of them peeping piteously and flapping their poor wings. She put up
her hands and caught the oranges, one--two--three--four. In a moment
she had freed the fluttering birds and tossed the fruit back into the
street.
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