“If 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 a blue, blue sky, as she had never dreamt of; clear, sharp, purple hills rose up against it.  There was a 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, 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 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.  Presently there came along a youth playing a violin and a little girl singing.  And a whole party of other children, all loaded with as many grapes as they could carry, came leaping and singing after them; 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, “here’s a stranger who has no grapes; bring 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 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-colored oxen, with enormous wide horns and gentle-looking eyes, was waiting to be loaded with 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 in and tread the grapes.”

“But you must take off your shoes and stockings,” said his sister, Nunziata; “we never wear them but on Sundays and holidays.”

Lucy was not sure that she might, but the children looked so joyous, and it seemed to be such fun, that she began fumbling with the buttons of her boots, and while she was doing it she opened her eyes, and found that her beautiful bunch of grapes was only the cushion in the bottom of Mother Bunch’s chair.