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Commuters surging from Rome’s Central Station hear it and tremble: the sound of Christmas-Yet-to-Come, a joyful, primitive wailing produced by the pifferari of the zampognari-men. These harbingers of the Italian festive season are wrapped in greyish sheepskins and leather britches. Stubbly-chinned, they patrol in pairs, one playing bagpipes, the other a shepherd’s pipe. They come from the Abruzzi mountains, where shepherds watch their flocks by night; nor will they return for a month, for this is a Centuries-Old Custom. Until mid-January every street in Rome will enjoy their rustic attentions.

It pays, ton. About $30 a day. There are even fraudulent zampi-men who promenade with tape-recorders under their sheepskins. They get their noses pulled by the real article.

CF

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Charles Foley

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Commuters surging from Rome’s Central Station hear it and tremble: the sound of Christmas-Yet-to-Come, a joyful, primitive wailing produced by the pifferari of the zampognari-men. These harbingers of the Italian festive season are wrapped in greyish sheepskins and leather britches. Stubbly-chinned, they patrol in pairs, one playing bagpipes, the other a shepherd’s pipe. They come from the Abruzzi mountains, where shepherds watch their flocks by night; nor will they return for a month, for this is a Centuries-Old Custom. Until mid-January every street in Rome will enjoy their rustic attentions.

It pays, ton. About $30 a day. There are even fraudulent zampi-men who promenade with tape-recorders under their sheepskins. They get their noses pulled by the real article.