Not long ago in Rome, the melancholic strain of bagpipes wafted through the gray December mist. Now the pastori (shepherds) and their zampogne (bagpipes) from the nearby Abruzzi mountains are as scarce as the deposed royalty and movie idols who used to frolic on the Via Veneto.

The Spanish Steps no longer echo their melodies. In their place last Christmas were occasional look-alikes, perhaps refugees from the Balkans, clad in cobbled boots instead of sandals cut from rubber tires and tied with leather strips.

But children still wonder whether Babbo Natale (Father Christmas) will bring them a wanted present on Christmas Eve or the Befana (kindly old witch) will fill their stockings with candy or a symbolic lump of coal on the Jan. 6 Epiphany in retribution for their naughtiness. Meanwhile, dinner tables will be piled high with panettone (fruit cake) and torrone (nougat).

Christmas trees have joined manger scenes in many Italian homes. Last year a giant pine towered over Piazza Venezia close to the Roman Forum, where in pagan times the city celebrated to honor Saturn, the harvest god, in the days before Dec. 25.

Apart from the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem, perhaps no place is as shrouded in the spirit of Christmas as St. Peter's Square, where a spillover crowd from St. Peter's Basilica gathers for midnight mass on Christmas Eve. The next day, the pope delivers his annual Christmas message.

Michael McGuire, the Chicago Tribune's former foreign editor, is now a special correspondent from Rome, where he does his best to avoid eating traditional Christmas eels.