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the sides of the dark, narrow canal have been constructed many small, niche-like grottoes into which percolate the little streams from the hills, and the water being calcareous each grotto shows its own miniature stalagmites and stalactites. I stood on wobbly stones that afforded small protection from the puddles underfoot. The Sfollati only enter this damp place when aeroplanes are actually overhead, otherwise they sit, as I have already said, on the grass outside. But should it rain, what then will they do? Speaking of rain, surely something has gone wrong with nature, surely she us in league against us. One hears of inundations in Spain, of the overflowing of the Mississippi, whilst here it never really rains at all. After a dry winter we are now having a dry spring very much like last year. Only a sprinkle now and then which fails to reach the roots of wheat, vines and trees. There are storms with thunder and lightning but no rain to speak of. And those furious windstorms lasting three days dry up even the foliage. So the bright sun shining down on us brings no joy. We knew that everything round us is praying for rain - even as we are praying for peace.
But to return to our Sfollati outside. The Professor who is used to an audience, has found one in the person of a peasant, a sort of Jude of the Obscure, who with open mouth listens to him with the rapt attention of a neophite. 'This peasant has aspirations, he desires to attend a night-class,' 'I am tired of his open mouth,' said the Professor to me