My Hildegarde by St. George Rathborne — Read

There were certainly enough dramatic elements concentrated in that critical moment to make it an epoch of my life, long to be marked with a white cross.

Those in the garden were throwing whatever they could lay hands on, and if the shower of missiles such as adobe bricks and broken flowerpots was not overwhelming it could be laid to the scarcity of material rather then any lack of desire on the part of the excited participants.