Tuscan wine, lay the Tyrrhenian, inmost sea of the
Middle Kingdom. Upon its sleeping surface bobbed
a motley flotilla of Folletti; aboard were the Mona-
ciello, those rotund and randy Monks of Naples; the
Linchetti, horse-teasing sprites from Lucca; snicker-
ing Baraboas, the peeping toms of Venice; the gay
Farfarelli (so dear to Dante) of Florence; Parma-
dina, the fat gangsters from Genoa (stowed away in
the hold); even hardy Salvani and Aguane, cliff-
dwellers from the wintry Piedmont.
All the airless night they drifted, until dawn
showed over the Apennine hills. Suddenly, the im-
petuous Samascazzo, Wind-Folletti of Sardinia,
filled their sails, and away they sped toward the
Pillars of Hercules.
Now, in the eternal whirlwinds above Persia’s
Mountains of Kaf, appeared a caravan of magic-
wrought carpets, and upon them rode the banished
elder spirits of Araby: monstrous Deevs, desert-born
giants; the Peri, bright and beautiful as starlight; and
the wish-granting Djinn, formed of smokeless fire, at
last free from Man’s lamps and bottles.
Exiled by the Law of the Prophet, all these, too,
sought and found the sunset land-crimson flowers,
crystal fountains, sweet-scented winds-an Earthly
Then, in their airy wake, out of Nubia and
Ethiopia and the jungles beyond the Mountains of


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