A VISIT TO LA VERNIA 
English travellers of past generations, and if on the 
further side of Arno 
“ Vallombrosa remotely remembers 
The foot which she knew when her leaves were September’s,” 
these forest shades recall the home-sick lay of the exiled 
Jacobite who 
“ Heard on La Vernia Scargill’s whispering trees, 
And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees.” 
But as we climb the rugged mountain-side and seek 
out a path among rocks overgrown with moss and 
brambles, we leave other memories behind for those of 
Francis. Every step is hallowed by the remembrance 
of his presence in these parts, and our peasant guides 
could point out the oaks which mark the place where 
he rested and the spring from which he drank, as well 
as the monks themselves. The very birds clapped 
their wings with joy at his coming, they told us, quot¬ 
ing almost the words of the “ Fioretti ”—“ our 
brothers and sisters sang out to bid him welcome.” 
As we ascended higher, the road became steeper and 
the rocks more barren, until we reached the grass 
meadows at the base of the perpendicular cliffs at 
the top of which the convent stands. A little further 
on at a spot known as La Beccia, or the Fountain of St. 
Francis, is a small hostelry built by the municipality 
of Florence for the reception of women-pilgrims, and 
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