At sunset we hear from the Palazzo Foscari (now a barrack) the shrill trumpet signals, which grate harshly on our ears, although the canal lies between us; we hear, too, the gondolieri of the neighboring 'Traghetto' singing with their pretty, soft voices their vapid Barcaroles; we are also favored sometimes with a jingle of guitar and piano, with stale, hackneyed 'fioriture,' which I don't like half as well as good fritture.