On closer inspection the babies are revealed to be pillows held much as babies are held, and every hand is busy with a bobbin (or whatever it is), and every mouth seems to be munching.

Passing on, you enter another room--if the first has not abashed you--and here are thousands more.
Pretty girls too, some of them, with their black massed hair and olive skins, and all so neat and happy.

Specimens of their work, some of it of miraculous delicacy, may be bought and kept as a souvenir of a most delightful experience.
For the rest, the interest of Burano is in Burano itself in the aggregate; for the church is a poor gaudy thing and there is no architecture of mark.

And so, fighting one's way through small boys who turn indifferent somersaults, and little girls whose accomplishment is to rattle clogged feet and who equally were born with an extended hand, you rejoin the steamer.
Torcello is of a different quality.

Burano is intensely and rather shockingly living; Torcello is nobly dead.