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Updated: May 17, 2025
Mother took a week to pack, and unpack, to go panting down-stairs to the corner drug-store for new tubes of tooth-paste and a presentable sponge, to remend all that was remendable, to press Father's flappy, shapeless little trousers with the family flat-iron, to worry over whether she should take the rose-pink or the daffodil-yellow wrapper which had both faded to approximately the same shade of gray, but which were to her trusting mind still interestingly different.
It is on the face of this that the workers in baked clay "lavoro molto utile per la state," so cool and fresh is it, so redolent of green pastures and the winds of April have moulded the Seven Acts of Pure Mercy in colours as pure; blue of morning sky, grass-green, daffodil-yellow. Once more, no heroics: here is what the workmen knew and we see.
And, yet again, there were those who, having once seen the metal in the raw: in dust, fine as that brushed from a butterfly's wing; in heavy, chubby nuggets; or, more exquisite still, as the daffodil-yellow veining of bluish-white quartz: these were gripped in the subtlest way of all.
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