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Updated: July 26, 2025
If you can only say 'buon giorno', say it, instead of saying 'bon jour', I mean to every Italian; the answer to it will teach you more words, and insensibly you will be very soon master of that easy language.
There were cow-bells, mountain elder-berries and lots of flowers in the grass. There was the glacier, the roar of the river and a plaintive little chapel on a green knoll under the great cliff of ice which cut the sky. There was a fat, crumby woman making hay. She said: "Buon giorno." And the "i o r" of the "giorno" came out like oil and honey. I saw she wanted a gossip.
It was a treat for the girl to be with any one so clever and so cheerful; and a blue military cloak, such as an Italian officer wears, only increased the sense of festivity. "Buon giorno! Take the word of an old woman, Miss Lucy: you will never repent of a little civility to your inferiors. That is the true democracy. Though I am a real Radical as well. There, now you're shocked."
On the whole, the experience offered by a visit to the great Roman cemetery on the evening of the "Giorno dei Morti" is a singular and curious one, as will be admitted, I think, by any one who may be tempted by my example to go and see it. The publication of the late Mr.
But as they saw Gaspare's light figure leaping over the hill edge, his dancing eyes fixed shrewdly, with a sort of boyish scolding, upon them, their hands fell apart, their faces relaxed. "Gasparino!" said Maurice. "It was you who called!" "Si, signore." He came up to them. Maddalena's oval face had flushed, and she dropped the full lids over her black eyes as she said: "Buon giorno, Gaspare."
A lady was standing before her, smiling down upon her, a lady in a frock of lilac-coloured muslin, with a white sunshade. Annunziata, who, when she liked, could be the very pink of formal politeness, rose, dropped a courtesy, and said: "Buon giorno, Signorina." "Buon giorno," responded the smiling lady. "Buon giorno and a penny for your thoughts.
An old man with one eye paraded the streets on an ass with a crow in one hand and a scourge and fan in the other, cooling himself, flogging the bystanders and crying heat! heat! This is the Italian Giorno delle Vecchie, Thursday in Mid Lent, March 12 , celebrating the death of Winter and the birth of Spring.
It is a pleasant game to guess from an approaching pilgrim's looks whether you should salute him with "Guten Morgen," or "Buon' Giorno," or "Bon jour, m'sieur." The country people answer your salutation with a pretty phrase: "Nehârak saîd umubârak May your day be happy and blessed."
In front of the ugly, bare little station I turned, and stretching out my hands I blessed the little city with all my heart, murmuring in my glowing, passionate mother tongue: "Benedetto sia 'l giorno e 'l mese e 'l anno E la stagione e 'l tempo e 'l ora e 'l punto E 'l bel paese e 'l loco ov' io fu giunto Da duo begli occhi, che legato m' hanno." "Dear Lucia, will you hear me a moment?
Banana trees, palm trees, cedars, great leaves, enormous thorns, and queer branches twisted and mingled as in a virgin forest. The forest alone was virgin there, however. The prettiest women and the most beautiful girls of Paris whirled in this illumination a giorno like a swarm of bees in a ray of sunshine.
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