But who comes here? What is the meaning of these roars of laughter that
greet the last mask who runs into the market-place? Why do all the women
and children hurry together, calling up one another, and shouting with
delight? What is this thing? Is it some new species of bird, thus
covered with feathers and down? In a few minutes the little figure is
surrounded by a crowd of boys and women, who begin to pluck him of his
borrowed plumes, while he chatters to them like a magpie, whistles like
a song-bird, croaks like a raven, or in his natural character showers a
mass of funny nonsense on them, till their laughter makes their sides
ache. The little wretch is literally covered with small feathers from
head to foot, and even his face is not to be recognized. The women pluck
him behind and before; he dances round and tries to evade their fingers.
This is impossible; he breaks away, runs down the market pursued by a
shouting crowd, is again surrounded, and again subjected to a plucking
process. The bird must be stripped; he must be discovered. Little by
little his back is bared, and little by little is seen a black jerkin,
black stockings, and, wonder upon wonder! the bands of a canon.
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