peared, the commander said the instruction drill would now begin, and asked for suggestions. I said:
"They say I have, thou hast, he has, and so on, but they don't say what. It will be better, and more definite, if they have something to have; just an object, you know, a something—anything will do; anything that will give the listener a sort of personal as well as grammatical interest in their joys and complaints, you see."
He said:
"It is a good point. Would a dog do?"
I said I did not know, but we could try a dog and see. So he sent out an aide-de-camp to give the order to add the dog.
The six privates of the Present Tense now filed in, in charge of Sergeant Avere (to have), and displaying their banner. They formed in line of battle, and recited, one at a time, thus:
"Io ho un cane, I have a dog."
"Tu hai un cane, thou hast a dog."
"Egli ha un cane, he has a dog."
"Noi abbiamo un cane, we have a dog."
"Voi avete un cane, you have a dog."
"Eglino hanno un cane, they have a dog."
No comment followed. They returned to camp, and I reflected a while. The commander said,
"I fear you are disappointed."
"Yes," I said; "they are too monotonous, too singsong, too dead-and-alive; they have no expression, no elocution. It isn't natural; it could never happen in real life. A person who has just acquired a dog is either blame' glad or blame' sorry. He is not on the fence. I never saw a case. What the nation do you suppose is the matter with these people?"
He thought maybe the trouble was with the dog. He said:
"These are contadini, you know, and they have a prejudice against dogs—that is, against marimane. Marimana dogs stand guard over people's vines and olives, you know, and are very savage, and thereby a grief and an inconvenience to persons who want other people's things at night. In my judgment they have taken this dog for a marimana, and have soured on him."
I saw that the dog was a mistake, and not functionable: we must try something else; something, if possible, that could evoke sentiment, interest, feeling.
"What is cat, in Italian?" I asked.
"Gatto."
"Is it a gentleman cat, or a lady?"
"Gentleman cat."
"How are these people as regards that animal?"
"We-ll, they—they—"
"You hesitate: that is enough. How are they about chickens?"
He tilted his eyes toward heaven in mute ecstasy. I understood.
"What is chicken in Italian?" I asked.
"Polio, podere." (Podere is Italian for master. It is a title of courtesy, and conveys reverence and admiration.) "Pollo is one chicken by itself; when there are enough present to constitute a plural, it is polli."
"Very well, polli will do. Which squad is detailed for duty next?"
"The Past Definite."
"Send out and order it to the front—with chickens. And let them understand that we don't want any more of this cold indifference."
He gave the order to an aide, adding, with a haunting tenderness in his tone and a watering mouth in his aspect,
"Convey to them the conception that these are unprotected chickens." He turned to me, saluting with his hand to his temple, and explained, " It will inflame their interest in the poultry, sire."
A few minutes elapsed. Then the squad marched in and formed up, their faces glowing with enthusiasm, and the file-leader shouted,
"Ebbi polli, I had chickens!"
"Good!" I said. "Go on, the next."
"Avesti polli, thou hadst chickens!"
"Fine! Next!"
"Ebbe polli, he had chickens!"
"Moltimoltissimo! Go on, the next!"
"Avemmo polli, we had chickens!"
"Basta-basta aspettatto avanti—last man—charge!"
"Ebbero polli, they had chickens!"
Then they formed in echelon, by column of fours, refusing the left, and retired in great style on the double-quick. I was enchanted, and said:
"Now, doctor, that is something like! Chickens are the ticket, there is no doubt about it. What is the next squad?"
"The Imperfect."
