"Here he is. This lad is not only a good boy; he is a man of honor and a gentleman."

And the boy dropped his big, shaggy head, with a sly smile at me. Precossi had on his medal, and he was happy, because his father has gone to work again, and has not drunk anything for the last five days, wants him to be always in the workshop to keep him company, and seems quite another man.

We began to play, and I brought out all my things. Precossi was enchanted with my train of cars, with the engine that goes of itself on being wound up. He had never seen anything of the kind. He devoured the little red and yellow cars with his eyes. I gave him the key to play with, and he knelt down to his amusement, and did not raise his head again. I have never seen him so pleased. He kept saying, "Excuse me, excuse me," to everything, and motioning to us with his hands, that we should not stop the engine; and then he picked it up and replaced the cars with a thousand precautions, as though they had been made of glass. He was afraid of tarnishing them with his breath, and he polished them up again, examining them top and bottom, and smiling to himself. We all stood around him and gazed at him. We looked at that slender neck, those poor little ears, which I had seen bleeding one day, that jacket with the sleeves turned up, from which projected two sickly little arms, which had been upraised to ward off blows from his face. Oh! at that moment I could have cast all my playthings and all my books at his feet, I could have torn the last morsel of bread from my lips to give to him, I could have divested myself of my clothing to clothe him, I could have flung myself on my knees to kiss his hand. "I will at least give you the train," I thought; but—was necessary to ask permission of my father. At that moment I felt a bit of paper thrust into my hand. I looked; it was written in pencil by my father; it said:

"Your train pleases Precossi. He has no playthings. Does your heart suggest nothing to you?"

Instantly I seized the engine and the cars in both hands, and placed the whole in his arms, saying:—

"Take this; it is yours."

He looked at me, and did not understand. "It is yours," I said; "I give it to you."

Then he looked at my father and mother, in still greater astonishment, and asked me:—

"But why?"

My father said to him:—

"Enrico gives it to you because he is your friend, because he loves you—to celebrate your medal."

Precossi asked timidly:—

"I may carry it away—home?"

"Of course!" we all responded. He was already at the door, but he dared not go out. He was happy! He begged our pardon with a mouth that smiled and quivered. Garrone helped him to wrap up the train in a handkerchief, and as he bent over, he made the things with which his pockets were filled rattle.

"Some day," said Precossi to me, "you shall come to the shop to see my father at work. I will give you some nails."

My mother put a little bunch of flowers into Garrone's buttonhole, for him to carry to his mother in her name. Garrone said, "Thanks," in his big voice, without raising his chin from his breast. But all his kind and noble soul shone in his eyes.

PRIDE.

Saturday, 11th.

The idea of Carlo Nobis rubbing off his sleeve affectedly, when Precossi touches him in passing! That fellow is pride incarnate because his father is a rich man. But Derossi's father is rich too. He would like to have a bench to himself; he is afraid that the rest will soil it; he looks down on everybody and always has a scornful smile on his lips: woe to him who stumbles over his foot, when we go out in files two by two! For a mere trifle he flings an insulting word in your face, or a threat to get his father to come to the school. It is true that his father did give him a good lesson when he called the little son of the charcoal-man a ragamuffin. I have never seen so disagreeable a schoolboy! No one speaks to him, no one says good by to him when he goes out; there is not even a dog who would give him a suggestion when he does not know his lesson. And he cannot endure any one, and he pretends to despise Derossi more than all, because he is the head boy; and Garrone, because he is beloved by all. But Derossi pays no attention to him when he is by; and when the boys tell Garrone that Nobis has been speaking ill of him, he says:—

"His pride is so senseless that it does not deserve even my passing notice."

But Coretti said to him one day, when he was smiling disdainfully at his catskin cap:—

"Go to Derossi for a while, and learn how to play the gentleman!"

Yesterday he complained to the master, because the Calabrian touched his leg with his foot. The master asked the Calabrian:—

"Did you do it intentionally?"—"No, sir," he replied, frankly.—"You are too petulant, Nobis."

And Nobis retorted, in his airy way, "I shall tell my father about it." Then the teacher got angry.

"Your father will tell you that you are in the wrong, as he has on other occasions. And besides that, it is the teacher alone who has the right to judge and punish in school." Then he added pleasantly:—

"Come, Nobis, change your ways; be kind and courteous to your comrades. You see, we have here sons of workingmen and of gentlemen, of the rich and the poor, and all love each other and treat each other like brothers, as they are. Why do not you do like the rest? It would not cost you much to make every one like you, and you would be so much happier yourself, too!—Well, have you no reply to make me?"

Nobis, who had listened to him with his customary scornful smile, answered coldly:—

"No, sir."

"Sit down," said the master to him. "I am sorry for you. You are a heartless boy."

This seemed to be the end of it all; but the little mason, who sits on the front bench, turned his round face towards Nobis, who sits on the back bench, and made such a fine and ridiculous hare's face at him, that the whole class burst into a shout of laughter. The master reproved him; but he was obliged to put his hand over his own mouth to conceal a smile. And even Nobis laughed, but not in a pleasant way.

THE WOUNDS OF LABOR.

Monday, 15th.

Nobis can be paired off with Franti: neither of them was affected this morning in the presence of the terrible sight which passed before their eyes. On coming out of school, I was standing with my father and looking at some big rogues of the second grade, who had thrown themselves on their knees and were wiping off the ice with their cloaks and caps, in order to make slides more quickly, when we saw a crowd of people appear at the end of the street, walking hurriedly, all serious and seemingly terrified, and conversing in low tones. In the midst of them were three policemen, and behind the policemen two men carrying a litter. Boys hastened up from all quarters. The crowd advanced towards us. On the litter was stretched a man, pale as a corpse, with his head resting on one shoulder, and his hair tumbled and stained with blood, for he had been losing blood through the mouth and ears; and beside the litter walked a woman with a baby in her arms, who seemed crazy, and who shrieked from time to time, "He is dead! He is dead! He is dead!"

Behind the woman came a boy who had a portfolio under his arm and who was sobbing.

"What has happened?" asked my father. A neighbor replied, that the man was a mason who had fallen from the fourth story while at work. The bearers of the litter halted for a moment. Many turned away their faces in horror. I saw the schoolmistress of the red feather supporting my mistress of the upper first, who was almost in a swoon. At the same moment I felt a touch on the elbow; it was the little mason, who was ghastly white and trembling from head to foot. He was certainly thinking of his father. I was thinking of him, too. I, at least, am at peace in my mind while I am in school: I know that my father is at home, seated at his table, far removed from all danger; but how many of my companions think that their fathers are at work on a very high bridge or close to the wheels of a machine, and that a movement, a single false step, may cost them their lives! They are like so many sons of soldiers who have fathers in the battle. The little mason gazed and gazed, and trembled more and more, and my father noticed it and said:—

"Go home, my boy; go at once to your father, and you will find him safe and tranquil; go!"

The little mason went off, turning round at every step. And in the meanwhile the crowd had begun to move again, and the woman to shriek in a way that rent the heart, "He is dead! He is dead! He is dead!"

"No, no; he is not dead," people on all sides said to her. But she paid no heed to them, and tore her hair. Then I heard an indignant voice say, "You are laughing!" and at the same moment I saw a bearded man staring in Franti's face. Then the man knocked his cap to the ground with his stick, saying:—

"Uncover your head, you wicked boy, when a man wounded by labor is passing by!"

The crowd had already passed, and a long streak of blood was visible in the middle of the street.

THE PRISONER.

Friday, 17th.

Ah, this is certainly the strangest event of the whole year! Yesterday morning my father took me to the suburbs of Moncalieri, to look at a villa which he thought of hiring for the coming summer, because we shall not go to Chieri again this year, and it turned out that the person who had the keys was a teacher who acts as secretary to the owner. He showed us the house, and then he took us to his own room, where he gave us something to drink. On his table, among the glasses, there was a wooden inkstand, of a conical form, carved in a singular manner. Perceiving that my father was looking at it, the teacher said:—

"That inkstand is very precious to me: if you only knew, sir, the history of that inkstand!" And he told it.

Years ago he was a teacher at Turin, and all one winter he went to give lessons to the prisoners in the judicial prison. He gave the lessons in the chapel of the prison, which is a circular building, and all around it, on the high, bare walls, are a great many little square windows, covered with two cross-bars of iron, each one of which corresponds to a very small cell inside. He gave his lessons as he paced about the dark, cold chapel, and his scholars stood at the holes, with their copy-books resting against the gratings, showing nothing in the shadow but wan, frowning faces, gray and ragged beards, staring eyes of murderers and thieves. Among the rest there was one, No. 78, who was more attentive than all the others, and who studied a great deal, and gazed at his teacher with eyes full of respect and gratitude. He was a young man, with a black beard, more unfortunate than wicked, a cabinet-maker who, in a fit of rage, had flung a plane at his master, who had been persecuting him for some time, and had inflicted a mortal wound on his head: for this he had been condemned to several years of seclusion. In three months he had learned to read and write, and he read constantly, and the more he learned, the better he seemed to become, and the more remorseful for his crime. One day, at the conclusion of the lesson, he made a sign to the teacher that he should come near to his little window, and he announced to him that he was to leave Turin on the following day, to go and expiate his crime in the prison at Venice; and as he bade him farewell, he begged in a humble and much moved voice, that he might be allowed to touch the master's hand. The master offered him his hand, and he kissed it; then he said:—

"Thanks! thanks!" and disappeared. The master drew back his hand; it was bathed with tears. After that he did not see the man again.

Six years passed. "I was thinking of anything except that unfortunate man," said the teacher, "when, the other morning, I saw a stranger come to the house, a man with a large black beard already sprinkled with gray, and badly dressed, who said to me: 'Are you the teacher So-and-So, sir?' 'Who are you?' I asked him. 'I am prisoner No. 78,' he replied; 'you taught me to read and write six years ago; if you recollect, you gave me your hand at the last lesson; I have now expiated my crime, and I have come hither—to beg you to do me the favor to accept a memento of me, a poor little thing which I made in prison. Will you accept it in memory of me, Signor Master?'

"I stood there speechless. He thought that I did not wish to take it, and he looked at me as much as to say, 'So six years of suffering are not sufficient to cleanse my hands!' but with so poignant an expression of pain did he gaze at me, that I instantly extended my hand and took the little object. This is it."

We looked attentively at the inkstand: it seemed to have been carved with the point of a nail, and with, great patience; on its top was carved a pen lying across a copy-book, and around it was written: "To my teacher. A memento of No. 78. Six years!" And below, in small letters, "Study and hope."

The master said nothing more; we went away. But all the way from Moncalieri to Turin I could not get that prisoner, standing at his little window, that farewell to his master, that poor inkstand made in prison, which told so much, out of my head; and I dreamed of them all night, and was still thinking of them this morning—far enough from imagining the surprise which awaited me at school! No sooner had I taken my new seat, beside Derossi, and written my problem in arithmetic for the monthly examination, than I told my companion the story of the prisoner and the inkstand, and how the inkstand was made, with the pen across the copy-book, and the inscription around it, "Six years!" Derossi sprang up at these words, and began to look first at me and then at Crossi, the son of the vegetable-vender, who sat on the bench in front, with his back turned to us, wholly absorbed on his problem.

"Hush!" he said; then, in a low voice, catching me by the arm, "don't you know that Crossi spoke to me day before yesterday of having caught a glimpse; of an inkstand in the hands of his father, who has returned from America; a conical inkstand, made by hand, with a copy-book and a pen,—that is the one; six years! He said that his father was in America; instead of that he was in prison: Crossi was a little boy at the time of the crime; he does not remember it; his mother has deceived him; he knows nothing; let not a syllable of this escape!"

I remained speechless, with my eyes fixed on Crossi. Then Derossi solved his problem, and passed it under the bench to Crossi; he gave him a sheet of paper; he took out of his hands the monthly story, Daddy's Nurse, which the teacher had given him to copy out, in order that he might copy it in his stead; he gave him pens, and stroked his shoulder, and made me promise on my honor that I would say nothing to any one; and when we left school, he said hastily to me:—

"His father came to get him yesterday; he will be here again this morning: do as I do."

We emerged into the street; Crossi's father was there, a little to one side: a man with a black beard sprinkled with gray, badly dressed, with a colorless and thoughtful face. Derossi shook Crossi's hand, in a way to attract attention, and said to him in a loud tone, "Farewell until we meet again, Crossi,"—and passed his hand under his chin. I did the same. But as he did so, Derossi turned crimson, and so did I; and Crossi's father gazed attentively at us, with a kindly glance; but through it shone an expression of uneasiness and suspicion which made our hearts grow cold.

DADDY'S NURSE.

(Monthly Story.)

One morning, on a rainy day in March, a lad dressed like a country boy, all muddy and saturated with water, with a bundle of clothes under his arm, presented himself to the porter of the great hospital at Naples, and, presenting a letter, asked for his father. He had a fine oval face, of a pale brown hue, thoughtful eyes, and two thick lips, always half open, which displayed extremely white teeth. He came from a village in the neighborhood of Naples. His father, who had left home a year previously to seek work in France, had returned to Italy, and had landed a few days before at Naples, where, having fallen suddenly ill, he had hardly time to write a line to announce his arrival to his family, and to say that he was going to the hospital. His wife, in despair at this news, and unable to leave home because she had a sick child, and a baby at the breast, had sent her eldest son to Naples, with a few soldi, to help his father—his daddy, as they called him: the boy had walked ten miles.

The porter, after glancing at the letter, called a nurse and told him to conduct the lad to his father.

"What father?" inquired the nurse.

The boy, trembling with terror, lest he should hear bad news, gave the name.

The nurse did not recall such a name.

"An old laborer, arrived from abroad?" he asked.

"Yes, a laborer," replied the lad, still more uneasy; "not so very old. Yes, arrived from abroad."

"When did he enter the hospital?" asked the nurse.

The lad glanced at his letter; "Five days ago, I think."

The nurse stood a while in thought; then, as though suddenly recalling him; "Ah!" he said, "the furthest bed in the fourth ward."

"Is he very ill? How is he?" inquired the boy, anxiously.

The nurse looked at him, without replying. Then he said, "Come with me."

They ascended two flights of stairs, walked to the end of a long corridor, and found themselves facing the open door of a large hall, wherein two rows of beds were arranged. "Come," repeated the nurse, entering. The boy plucked up his courage, and followed him, casting terrified glances to right and left, on the pale, emaciated faces of the sick people, some of whom had their eyes closed, and seemed to be dead, while others were staring into the air, with their eyes wide open and fixed, as though frightened. Some were moaning like children. The big room was dark, the air was impregnated with an acute odor of medicines. Two sisters of charity were going about with phials in their hands.

Arrived at the extremity of the great room, the nurse halted at the head of a bed, drew aside the curtains, and said, "Here is your father."

The boy burst into tears, and letting fall his bundle, he dropped his head on the sick man's shoulder, clasping with one hand the arm which was lying motionless on the coverlet. The sick man did not move.

The boy rose to his feet, and looked at his father, and broke into a fresh fit of weeping. Then the sick man gave a long look at him, and seemed to recognize him; but his lips did not move. Poor daddy, how he was changed! The son would never have recognized him. His hair had turned white, his beard had grown, his face was swollen, of a dull red hue, with the skin tightly drawn and shining; his eyes were diminished in size, his lips very thick, his whole countenance altered. There was no longer anything natural about him but his forehead and the arch of his eyebrows. He breathed with difficulty.

"Daddy! daddy!" said the boy, "it is I; don't you know me? I am Cicillo, your own Cicillo, who has come from the country: mamma has sent me. Take a good look at me; don't you know me? Say one word to me."

But the sick man, after having looked attentively at him, closed his eyes.

"Daddy! daddy! What is the matter with you? I am your little son—your own Cicillo."

The sick man made no movement, and continued to breathe painfully.

Then the lad, still weeping, took a chair, seated himself and waited, without taking his eyes from his father's face. "A doctor will surely come to pay him a visit," he thought; "he will tell me something." And he became immersed in sad thoughts, recalling many things about his kind father, the day of parting, when he said the last good by to him on board the ship, the hopes which his family had founded on his journey, the desolation of his mother on the arrival of the letter; and he thought of death: he beheld his father dead, his mother dressed in black, the family in misery. And he remained a long time thus. A light hand touched him on the shoulder, and he started up: it was a nun.

"What is the matter with my father?" he asked her quickly.

"Is he your father?" said the sister gently.

"Yes, he is my father; I have come. What ails him?"

"Courage, my boy," replied the sister; "the doctor will be here soon now." And she went away without saying anything more.

Half an hour later he heard the sound of a bell, and he saw the doctor enter at the further end of the hall, accompanied by an assistant; the sister and a nurse followed him. They began the visit, pausing at every bed. This time of waiting seemed an eternity to the lad, and his anxiety increased at every step of the doctor. At length they arrived at the next bed. The doctor was an old man, tall and stooping, with a grave face. Before he left the next bed the boy rose to his feet, and when he approached he began to cry.

The doctor looked at him.

"He is the sick man's son," said the sister; "he arrived this morning from the country."

The doctor placed one hand on his shoulder; then bent over the sick man, felt his pulse, touched his forehead, and asked a few questions of the sister, who replied, "There is nothing new." Then he thought for a while and said, "Continue the present treatment."

Then the boy plucked up courage, and asked in a tearful voice, "What is the matter with my father?"

"Take courage, my boy," replied the doctor, laying his hand on his shoulder once more; "he has erysipelas in his face. It is a serious case, but there is still hope. Help him. Your presence may do him a great deal of good."

"But he does not know me!" exclaimed the boy in a tone of affliction.

"He will recognize you—to-morrow perhaps. Let us hope for the best and keep up our courage."

The boy would have liked to ask some more questions, but he did not dare. The doctor passed on. And then he began his life of nurse. As he could do nothing else, he arranged the coverlets of the sick man, touched his hand every now and then, drove away the flies, bent over him at every groan, and when the sister brought him something to drink, he took the glass or the spoon from her hand, and administered it in her stead. The sick man looked at him occasionally, but he gave no sign of recognition. However, his glance rested longer on the lad each time, especially when the latter put his handkerchief to his eyes.

Thus passed the first day. At night the boy slept on two chairs, in a corner of the ward, and in the morning he resumed his work of mercy. That day it seemed as though the eyes of the sick man revealed a dawning of consciousness. At the sound of the boy's caressing voice a vague expression of gratitude seemed to gleam for an instant in his pupils, and once he moved his lips a little, as though he wanted to say something. After each brief nap he seemed, on opening his eyes, to seek his little nurse. The doctor, who had passed twice, thought he noted a slight improvement. Towards evening, on putting the cup to his lips, the lad fancied that he perceived a very faint smile glide across the swollen lips. Then he began to take comfort and to hope; and with the hope of being understood, confusedly at least, he talked to him—talked to him at great length—of his mother, of his little sisters, of his own return home, and he exhorted him to courage with warm and loving words. And although he often doubted whether he was heard, he still talked; for it seemed to him that even if he did not understand him, the sick man listened with a certain pleasure to his voice,—to that unaccustomed intonation of affection and sorrow. And in this manner passed the second day, and the third, and the fourth, with vicissitudes of slight improvements and unexpected changes for the worse; and the boy was so absorbed in all his cares, that he hardly nibbled a bit of bread and cheese twice a day, when the sister brought it to him, and hardly saw what was going on around him,—the dying patients, the sudden running up of the sisters at night, the moans and despairing gestures of visitors,—all those doleful and lugubrious scenes of hospital life, which on any other occasion would have disconcerted and alarmed him. Hours, days, passed, and still he was there with his daddy; watchful, wistful, trembling at every sigh and at every look, agitated incessantly between a hope which relieved his mind and a discouragement which froze his heart.

On the fifth day the sick man suddenly grew worse. The doctor, on being interrogated, shook his head, as much as to say that all was over, and the boy flung himself on a chair and burst out sobbing. But one thing comforted him. In spite of the fact that he was worse, the sick man seemed to be slowly regaining a little intelligence. He stared at the lad with increasing intentness, and, with an expression which grew in sweetness, would take his drink and medicine from no one but him, and made strenuous efforts with his lips with greater frequency, as though he were trying to pronounce some word; and he did it so plainly sometimes that his son grasped his arm violently, inspired by a sudden hope, and said to him in a tone which was almost that of joy, "Courage, courage, daddy; you will get well, we will go away from here, we will return home with mamma; courage, for a little while longer!"

It was four o'clock in the afternoon, and just when the boy had abandoned himself to one of these outbursts of tenderness and hope, when a sound of footsteps became audible outside the nearest door in the ward, and then a strong voice uttering two words only,—"Farewell, sister!"—which made him spring to his feet, with a cry repressed in his throat.

At that moment there entered the ward a man with a thick bandage on his hand, followed by a sister.

The boy uttered a sharp cry, and stood rooted to the spot.

The man turned round, looked at him for a moment, and uttered a cry in his turn,—"Cicillo!"—and darted towards him.

The boy fell into his father's arms, choking with emotion.

The sister, the nurse, and the assistant ran up, and stood there in amazement.

The boy could not recover his voice.

"Oh, my Cicillo!" exclaimed the father, after bestowing an attentive look on the sick man, as he kissed the boy repeatedly. "Cicillo, my son, how is this? They took you to the bedside of another man. And there was I, in despair at not seeing you after mamma had written, 'I have sent him.' Poor Cicillo! How many days have you been here? How did this mistake occur? I have come out of it easily! I have a good constitution, you know! And how is mamma? And Concettella? And the little baby—how are they all? I am leaving the hospital now. Come, then. Oh, Lord God! Who would have thought it!"

The boy tried to interpolate a few words, to tell the news of the family. "Oh how happy I am!" he stammered. "How happy I am! What terrible days I have passed!" And he could not finish kissing his father.

But he did not stir.

"Come," said his father; "we can get home this evening." And he drew the lad towards him. The boy turned to look at his patient.

"Well, are you coming or not?" his father demanded, in amazement.

The boy cast yet another glance at the sick man, who opened his eyes at that moment and gazed intently at him.

Then a flood of words poured from his very soul. "No, daddy; wait—here—I can't. Here is this old man. I have been here for five days. He gazes at me incessantly. I thought he was you. I love him dearly. He looks at me; I give him his drink; he wants me always beside him; he is very ill now. Have patience; I have not the courage—I don't know—it pains me too much; I will return home to-morrow; let me stay here a little longer; I don't at all like to leave him. See how he looks at me! I don't know who he is, but he wants me; he will die alone: let me stay here, dear daddy!"

"Bravo, little fellow!" exclaimed the attendant.

The father stood in perplexity, staring at the boy; then he looked at the sick man. "Who is he?" he inquired.

"A countryman, like yourself," replied the attendant, "just arrived from abroad, and who entered the hospital on the very day that you entered it. He was out of his senses when they brought him here, and could not speak. Perhaps he has a family far away, and sons. He probably thinks that your son is one of his."

The sick man was still looking at the boy.

The father said to Cicillo, "Stay."

"He will not have to stay much longer," murmured the attendant.

"Stay," repeated his father: "you have heart. I will go home immediately, to relieve mamma's distress. Here is a scudo for your expenses. Good by, my brave little son, until we meet!"

He embraced him, looked at him intently, kissed him again on the brow, and went away.

The boy returned to his post at the bedside, and the sick man appeared consoled. And Cicillo began again to play the nurse, no longer weeping, but with the same eagerness, the same patience, as before; he again began to give the man his drink, to arrange his bedclothes, to caress his hand, to speak softly to him, to exhort him to courage. He attended him all that day, all that night; he remained beside him all the following day. But the sick man continued to grow constantly worse; his face turned a purple color, his breathing grew heavier, his agitation increased, inarticulate cries escaped his lips, the inflammation became excessive. On his evening visit, the doctor said that he would not live through the night. And then Cicillo redoubled his cares, and never took his eyes from him for a minute. The sick man gazed and gazed at him, and kept moving his lips from time to time, with great effort, as though he wanted to say something, and an expression of extraordinary tenderness passed over his eyes now and then, as they continued to grow smaller and more dim. And that night the boy watched with him until he saw the first rays of dawn gleam white through the windows, and the sister appeared. The sister approached the bed, cast a glance at the patient, and then went away with rapid steps. A few moments later she reappeared with the assistant doctor, and with a nurse, who carried a lantern.

"He is at his last gasp," said the doctor.

The boy clasped the sick man's hand. The latter opened his eyes, gazed at him, and closed them once more.

At that moment the lad fancied that he felt his hand pressed. "He pressed my hand!" he exclaimed.

The doctor bent over the patient for an instant, then straightened himself up.

The sister detached a crucifix from the wall.

"He is dead!" cried the boy.

"Go, my son," said the doctor: "your work of mercy is finished. Go, and may fortune attend you! for you deserve it. God will protect you. Farewell!"

The sister, who had stepped aside for a moment, returned with a little bunch of violets which she had taken from a glass on the window-sill, and handed them to the boy, saying:—

"I have nothing else to give you. Take these in memory of the hospital."

"Thanks," returned the boy, taking the bunch of flowers with one hand and drying his eyes with the other; "but I have such a long distance to go on foot—I shall spoil them." And separating the violets, he scattered them over the bed, saying: "I leave them as a memento for my poor dead man. Thanks, sister! thanks, doctor!" Then, turning to the dead man, "Farewell—" And while he sought a name to give him, the sweet name which he had applied to him for five days recurred to his lips,—"Farewell, poor daddy!"

So saying, he took his little bundle of clothes under his arm, and, exhausted with fatigue, he walked slowly away. The day was dawning.

THE WORKSHOP.

Saturday, 18th.

Precossi came last night to remind me that I was to go and see his workshop, which is down the street, and this morning when I went out with my father, I got him to take me there for a moment. As we approached the shop, Garoffi issued from it on a run, with a package in his hand, and making his big cloak, with which he covers up his merchandise, flutter. Ah! now I know where he goes to pilfer iron filings, which he sells for old papers, that barterer of a Garoffi! When we arrived in front of the door, we saw Precossi seated on a little pile of bricks, engaged in studying his lesson, with his book resting on his knees. He rose quickly and invited us to enter. It was a large apartment, full of coal-dust, bristling with hammers, pincers, bars, and old iron of every description; and in one corner burned a fire in a small furnace, where puffed a pair of bellows worked by a boy. Precossi, the father, was standing near the anvil, and a young man was holding a bar of iron in the fire.

"Ah! here he is," said the smith, as soon as he caught sight of us, and he lifted his cap, "the nice boy who gives away railway trains! He has come to see me work a little, has he not? I shall be at your service in a moment." And as he said it, he smiled; and he no longer had the ferocious face, the malevolent eyes of former days. The young man handed him a long bar of iron heated red-hot on one end, and the smith placed it on the anvil. He was making one of those curved bars for the rail of terrace balustrades. He raised a large hammer and began to beat it, pushing the heated part now here, now there, between one point of the anvil and the middle, and turning it about in various ways; and it was a marvel to see how the iron curved beneath the rapid and accurate blows of the hammer, and twisted, and gradually assumed the graceful form of a leaf torn from a flower, like a pipe of dough which he had modelled with his hands. And meanwhile his son watched us with a certain air of pride, as much as to say, "See how my father works!"

"Do you see how it is done, little master?" the blacksmith asked me, when he had finished, holding out the bar, which looked like a bishop's crosier. Then he laid it aside, and thrust another into the fire.

"That was very well made, indeed," my father said to him. And he added, "So you are working—eh! You have returned to good habits?"

"Yes, I have returned," replied the workman, wiping away the perspiration, and reddening a little. "And do you know who has made me return to them?" My father pretended not to understand. "This brave boy," said the blacksmith, indicating his son with his finger; "that brave boy there, who studied and did honor to his father, while his father rioted, and treated him like a dog. When I saw that medal—Ah! thou little lad of mine, no bigger than a soldo[1] of cheese, come hither, that I may take a good look at thy phiz!"

[1] The twentieth part of a cubit; Florentine measure.

The boy ran to him instantly; the smith took him and set him directly on the anvil, holding him under the arms, and said to him:—

"Polish off the frontispiece of this big beast of a daddy of yours a little!"

And then Precossi covered his father's black face with kisses, until he was all black himself.

"That's as it should be," said the smith, and he set him on the ground again.

"That really is as it should be, Precossi!" exclaimed my father, delighted. And bidding the smith and his son good day, he led me away. As I was going out, little Precossi said to me, "Excuse me," and thrust a little packet of nails into my pocket. I invited him to come and view the Carnival from my house.

"You gave him your railway train," my father said to me in the street; "but if it had been made of gold and filled with pearls, it would still have been but a petty gift to that sainted son, who has reformed his father's heart."

THE LITTLE HARLEQUIN.

Monday, 20th.

The whole city is in a tumult over the Carnival, which is nearing its close. In every square rise booths of mountebanks and jesters; and we have under our windows a circus-tent, in which a little Venetian company, with five horses, is giving a show. The circus is in the centre of the square; and in one corner there are three very large vans in which the mountebanks sleep and dress themselves,—three small houses on wheels, with their tiny windows, and a chimney in each of them, which smokes continually; and between window and window the baby's swaddling-bands are stretched. There is one woman who is nursing a child, who prepares the food, and dances on the tight-rope. Poor people! The word mountebank is spoken as though it were an insult; but they earn their living honestly, nevertheless, by amusing all the world—and how they work! All day long they run back and forth between the circus-tent and the vans, in tights, in all this cold; they snatch a mouthful or two in haste, standing, between two performances; and sometimes, when they get their tent full, a wind arises, wrenches away the ropes and extinguishes the lights, and then good by to the show! They are obliged to return the money, and to work the entire night at repairing their booth. There are two lads who work; and my father recognized the smallest one as he was traversing the square; and he is the son of the proprietor, the same one whom we saw perform tricks on horseback last year in a circus on the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele. And he has grown; he must be eight years old: he is a handsome boy, with a round and roguish face, with so many black curls that they escape from his pointed cap. He is dressed up like a harlequin, decked out in a sort of sack, with sleeves of white, embroidered with black, and his slippers are of cloth. He is a merry little imp. He charms every one. He does everything. We see him early in the morning, wrapped in a shawl, carrying milk to his wooden house; then he goes to get the horses at the boarding-stable on the Via Bertola. He holds the tiny baby in his arms; he transports hoops, trestles, rails, ropes; he cleans the vans, lights the fire, and in his leisure moments he always hangs about his mother. My father is always watching him from the window, and does nothing but talk about him and his family, who have the air of nice people, and of being fond of their children.

One evening we went to the circus: it was cold; there was hardly any one there; but the little harlequin exerted himself greatly to cheer those few people: he executed precarious leaps; he caught hold of the horses' tails; he walked with his legs in the air, all alone; he sang, always with a smile constantly on his handsome little brown face. And his father, who had on a red vest and white trousers, with tall boots, and a whip in his hand, watched him: but it was melancholy. My father took pity on him, and spoke of him on the following day to Delis the painter, who came to see us. These poor people were killing themselves with hard work, and their affairs were going so badly! The little boy pleased him so much! What could be done for them? The painter had an idea.

"Write a fine article for the Gazette," he said: "you know how to write well: relate the miraculous things which the little harlequin does, and I will take his portrait for you. Everybody reads the Gazette, and people will flock thither for once."

And thus they did. My father wrote a fine article, full of jests, which told all that we had observed from the window, and inspired a desire to see and caress the little artist; and the painter sketched a little portrait which was graceful and a good likeness, and which was published on Saturday evening. And behold! at the Sunday performance a great crowd rushed to the circus. The announcement was made: Performance for the Benefit of the Little Harlequin, as he was styled in the Gazette. The circus was crammed; many of the spectators held the Gazette in their hands, and showed it to the little harlequin, who laughed and ran from one to another, perfectly delighted. The proprietor was delighted also. Just fancy! Not a single newspaper had ever done him such an honor, and the money-box was filled. My father sat beside me. Among the spectators we found persons of our acquaintance. Near the entrance for the horses stood the teacher of gymnastics—the one who has been with Garibaldi; and opposite us, in the second row, was the little mason, with his little round face, seated beside his gigantic father; and no sooner did he catch sight of me than he made a hare's face at me. A little further on I espied Garoffi, who was counting the spectators, and calculated on his fingers how much money the company had taken in. On one of the chairs in the first row, not far from us, there was also poor Robetti, the boy who saved the child from the omnibus, with his crutches between his knees, pressed close to the side of his father, the artillery captain, who kept one hand on his shoulder. The performance began. The little harlequin accomplished wonders on his horse, on the trapeze, on the tight-rope; and every time that he jumped down, every one clapped their hands, and many pulled his curls. Then several others, rope-dancers, jugglers, and riders, clad in tights, and sparkling with silver, went through their exercises; but when the boy was not performing, the audience seemed to grow weary. At a certain point I saw the teacher of gymnastics, who held his post at the entrance for the horses, whisper in the ear of the proprietor of the circus, and the latter instantly glanced around, as though in search of some one. His glance rested on us. My father perceived it, and understood that the teacher had revealed that he was the author of the article, and in order to escape being thanked, he hastily retreated, saying to me:—

"Remain, Enrico; I will wait for you outside."

After exchanging a few words with his father, the little harlequin went through still another trick: erect upon a galloping horse, he appeared in four characters—as a pilgrim, a sailor, a soldier, and an acrobat; and every time that he passed near me, he looked at me. And when he dismounted, he began to make the tour of the circus, with his harlequin's cap in his hand, and everybody threw soldi or sugar-plums into it. I had two soldi ready; but when he got in front of me, instead of offering his cap, he drew it back, gave me a look and passed on. I was mortified. Why had he offered me that affront?

The performance came to an end; the proprietor thanked the audience; and all the people rose also, and thronged to the doors. I was confused by the crowd, and was on the point of going out, when I felt a touch on my hand. I turned round: it was the little harlequin, with his tiny brown face and his black curls, who was smiling at me; he had his hands full of sugar-plums. Then I understood.

"Will you accept these sugar-plums from the little harlequin?" said he to me, in his dialect.

I nodded, and took three or four.

"Then," he added, "please accept a kiss also."

"Give me two," I answered; and held up my face to him. He rubbed off his floury face with his hand, put his arm round my neck, and planted two kisses on my cheek, saying:—

"There! take one of them to your father."

THE LAST DAY OF THE CARNIVAL.

Tuesday, 21st.

What a sad scene was that which we witnessed to-day at the procession of the masks! It ended well; but it might have resulted in a great misfortune. In the San Carlo Square, all decorated with red, white, and yellow festoons, a vast multitude had assembled; masks of every hue were flitting about; cars, gilded and adorned, in the shape of pavilions; little theatres, barks filled with harlequins and warriors, cooks, sailors, and shepherdesses; there was such a confusion that one knew not where to look; a tremendous clash of trumpets, horns, and cymbals lacerated the ears; and the masks on the chariots drank and sang, as they apostrophized the people in the streets and at the windows, who retorted at the top of their lungs, and hurled oranges and sugar-plums at each other vigorously; and above the chariots and the throng, as far as the eye could reach, one could see banners fluttering, helmets gleaming, plumes waving, gigantic pasteboard heads moving, huge head-dresses, enormous trumpets, fantastic arms, little drums, castanets, red caps, and bottles;—all the world seemed to have gone mad. When our carriage entered the square, a magnificent chariot was driving in front of us, drawn by four horses covered with trappings embroidered in gold, and all wreathed in artificial roses, upon which there were fourteen or fifteen gentlemen masquerading as gentlemen at the court of France, all glittering with silk, with huge white wigs, a plumed hat, under the arm a small-sword, and a tuft of ribbons and laces on the breast. They were very gorgeous. They were singing a French canzonette in concert and throwing sweetmeats to the people, and the people clapped their hands and shouted. Suddenly, on our left, we saw a man lift a child of five or six above the heads of the crowd,—a poor little creature, who wept piteously, and flung her arms about as though in a fit of convulsions. The man made his way to the gentlemen's chariot; one of the latter bent down, and the other said aloud:—

"Take this child; she has lost her mother in the crowd; hold her in your arms; the mother may not be far off, and she will catch sight of her: there is no other way."

The gentleman took the child in his arms: all the rest stopped singing; the child screamed and struggled; the gentleman removed his mask; the chariot continued to move slowly onwards. Meanwhile, as we were afterwards informed, at the opposite extremity of the square a poor woman, half crazed with despair, was forcing her way through the crowd, by dint of shoves and elbowing, and shrieking:—

"Maria! Maria! Maria! I have lost my little daughter! She has been stolen from me! They have suffocated my child!" And for a quarter of an hour she raved and expressed her despair in this manner, straying now a little way in this direction, and then a little way in that, crushed by the throng through which she strove to force her way.

The gentleman on the car was meanwhile holding the child pressed against the ribbons and laces on his breast, casting glances over the square, and trying to calm the poor creature, who covered her face with her hands, not knowing where she was, and sobbed as though she would break her heart. The gentleman was touched: it was evident that these screams went to his soul. All the others offered the child oranges and sugar-plums; but she repulsed them all, and grew constantly more convulsed and frightened.

"Find her mother!" shouted the gentleman to the crowd; "seek her mother!" And every one turned to the right and the left; but the mother was not to be found. Finally, a few paces from the place where the Via Roma enters the square, a woman was seen to rush towards the chariot. Ah, I shall never forget that! She no longer seemed a human creature: her hair was streaming, her face distorted, her garments torn; she hurled herself forward with a rattle in her throat,—one knew not whether to attribute it to either joy, anguish, or rage,—and darted out her hands like two claws to snatch her child. The chariot halted.

"Here she is," said the gentleman, reaching out the child after kissing it; and he placed her in her mother's arms, who pressed her to her breast like a fury. But one of the tiny hands rested a second longer in the hands of the gentleman; and the latter, pulling off of his right hand a gold ring set with a large diamond, and slipping it with a rapid movement upon the finger of the little girl, said:—

"Take this; it shall be your marriage dowry."

The mother stood rooted to the spot, as though enchanted; the crowd broke into applause; the gentleman put on his mask again, his companions resumed their song, and the chariot started on again slowly, amid a tempest of hand-clapping and hurrahs.

THE BLIND BOYS.

Thursday, 24th.

The master is very ill, and they have sent in his stead the master of the fourth grade, who has been a teacher in the Institute for the Blind. He is the oldest of all the instructors, with hair so white that it looks like a wig made of cotton, and he speaks in a peculiar manner, as though he were chanting a melancholy song; but he does it well, and he knows a great deal. No sooner had he entered the schoolroom than, catching sight of a boy with a bandage on his eye, he approached the bench, and asked him what was the matter.

"Take care of your eyes, my boy," he said to him. And then Derossi asked him:—

"Is it true, sir, that you have been a teacher of the blind?"

"Yes, for several years," he replied. And Derossi said, in a low tone, "Tell us something about it."

The master went and seated himself at his table.

Coretti said aloud, "The Institute for the Blind is in the Via Nizza."

"You say blind—blind," said the master, "as you would say poor or ill, or I know not what. But do you thoroughly comprehend the significance of that word? Reflect a little. Blind! Never to see anything! Not to be able to distinguish the day from night; to see neither the sky, nor sun, nor your parents, nor anything of what is around you, and which you touch; to be immersed in a perpetual obscurity, and as though buried in the bowels of the earth! Make a little effort to close your eyes, and to think of being obliged to remain forever thus; you will suddenly be overwhelmed by a mental agony, by terror; it will seem to you impossible to resist, that you must burst into a scream, that you must go mad or die. But, poor boys! when you enter the Institute of the Blind for the first time, during their recreation hour, and hear them playing on violins and flutes in all directions, and talking loudly and laughing, ascending and descending the stairs at a rapid pace, and wandering freely through the corridors and dormitories, you would never pronounce these unfortunates to be the unfortunates that they are. It is necessary to observe them closely. There are lads of sixteen or eighteen, robust and cheerful, who bear their blindness with a certain ease, almost with hardihood; but you understand from a certain proud, resentful expression of countenance that they must have suffered tremendously before they became resigned to this misfortune.

"There are others, with sweet and pallid faces, on which a profound resignation is visible; but they are sad, and one understands that they must still weep at times in secret. Ah, my sons! reflect that some of them have lost their sight in a few days, some after years of martyrdom and many terrible chirurgical operations, and that many were born so,—born into a night that has no dawn for them, that they entered into the world as into an immense tomb, and that they do not know what the human countenance is like. Picture to yourself how they must have suffered, and how they must still suffer, when they think thus confusedly of the tremendous difference between themselves and those who see, and ask themselves, 'Why this difference, if we are not to blame?'

"I who have spent many years among them, when I recall that class, all those eyes forever sealed, all those pupils without sight and without life, and then look at the rest of you, it seems impossible to me that you should not all be happy. Think of it! there are about twenty-six thousand blind persons in Italy! Twenty-six thousand persons who do not see the light—do you understand? An army which would employ four hours in marching past our windows."

The master paused. Not a breath was audible in all the school. Derossi asked if it were true that the blind have a finer sense of feeling than the rest of us.

The master said: "It is true. All the other senses are finer in them, because, since they must replace, among them, that of sight, they are more and better exercised than they are in the case of those who see. In the morning, in the dormitory, one asks another, 'Is the sun shining?' and the one who is the most alert in dressing runs instantly into the yard, and flourishes his hands in the air, to find out whether there is any warmth of the sun perceptible, and then he runs to communicate the good news, 'The sun is shining!' From the voice of a person they obtain an idea of his height. We judge of a man's soul by his eyes; they, by his voice. They remember intonations and accents for years. They perceive if there is more than one person in a room, even if only one speaks, and the rest remain motionless. They know by their touch whether a spoon is more or less polished. Little girls distinguish dyed wools from that which is of the natural color. As they walk two and two along the streets, they recognize nearly all the shops by their odors, even those in which we perceive no odor. They spin top, and by listening to its humming they go straight to it and pick it up without any mistake. They trundle hoop, play at ninepins, jump the rope, build little houses of stones, pick violets as though they saw them, make mats and baskets, weaving together straw of various colors rapidly and well—to such a degree is their sense of touch skilled. The sense of touch is their sight. One of their greatest pleasures is to handle, to grasp, to guess the forms of things by feeling them. It is affecting to see them when they are taken to the Industrial Museum, where they are allowed to handle whatever they please, and to observe with what eagerness they fling themselves on geometrical bodies, on little models of houses, on instruments; with what joy they feel over and rub and turn everything about in their hands, in order to see how it is made. They call this seeing!"

Garoffi interrupted the teacher to inquire if it was true that blind boys learn to reckon better than others.

The master replied: "It is true. They learn to reckon and to write. They have books made on purpose for them, with raised characters; they pass their fingers over these, recognize the letters and pronounce the words. They read rapidly; and you should see them blush, poor little things, when they make a mistake. And they write, too, without ink. They write on a thick and hard sort of paper with a metal bodkin, which makes a great many little hollows, grouped according to a special alphabet; these little punctures stand out in relief on the other side of the paper, so that by turning the paper over and drawing their fingers across these projections, they can read what they have written, and also the writing of others; and thus they write compositions: and they write letters to each other. They write numbers in the same way, and they make calculations; and they calculate mentally with an incredible facility, since their minds are not diverted by the sight of surrounding objects, as ours are. And if you could see how passionately fond they are of reading, how attentive they are, how well they remember everything, how they discuss among themselves, even the little ones, of things connected with history and language, as they sit four or five on the same bench, without turning to each other, and converse, the first with the third, the second with the fourth, in a loud voice and all together, without losing a single word, so acute and prompt is their hearing.

"And they attach more importance to the examinations than you do, I assure you, and they are fonder of their teachers. They recognize their teacher by his step and his odor; they perceive whether he is in a good or bad humor, whether he is well or ill, simply by the sound of a single word of his. They want the teacher to touch them when he encourages and praises them, and they feel of his hand and his arms in order to express their gratitude. And they love each other and are good comrades to each other. In play time they are always together, according to their wont. In the girls' school, for instance, they form into groups according to the instrument on which they play,—violinists, pianists, and flute-players,—and they never separate. When they have become attached to any one, it is difficult for them to break it off. They take much comfort in friendship. They judge correctly among themselves. They have a clear and profound idea of good and evil. No one grows so enthusiastic as they over the narration of a generous action, of a grand deed."

Votini inquired if they played well.

"They are ardently fond of music," replied the master. "It is their delight: music is their life. Little blind children, when they first enter the Institute, are capable of standing three hours perfectly motionless, to listen to playing. They learn easily; they play with fire. When the teacher tells one of them that he has not a talent for music, he feels very sorrowful, but he sets to studying desperately. Ah! if you could hear the music there, if you could see them when they are playing, with their heads thrown back a smile on their lips, their faces aflame, trembling with emotion, in ecstasies at listening to that harmony which replies to them in the obscurity which envelops them, you would feel what a divine consolation is music! And they shout for joy, they beam with happiness when a teacher says to them, "You will become an artist." The one who is first in music, who succeeds the best on the violin or piano, is like a king to them; they love, they venerate him. If a quarrel arises between two of them, they go to him; if two friends fall out, it is he who reconciles them. The smallest pupils, whom he teaches to play, regard him as a father. Then all go to bid him good night before retiring to bed. And they talk constantly of music. They are already in bed, late at night, wearied by study and work, and half asleep, and still they are discussing, in a low tone, operas, masters, instruments, and orchestras. It is so great a punishment for them to be deprived of the reading, or lesson in music, it causes them such sorrow that one hardly ever has the courage to punish them in that way. That which the light is to our eyes, music is to their hearts."

Derossi asked whether we could not go to see them.

"Yes," replied the teacher; "but you boys must not go there now. You shall go there later on, when you are in a condition to appreciate the whole extent of this misfortune, and to feel all the compassion which it merits. It is a sad sight, my boys. You will sometimes see there boys seated in front of an open window, enjoying the fresh air, with immovable countenances, which seem to be gazing at the wide green expanse and the beautiful blue mountains which you can see; and when you remember that they see nothing—that they will never see anything—of that vast loveliness, your soul is oppressed, as though you had yourselves become blind at that moment. And then there are those who were born blind, who, as they have never seen the world, do not complain because they do not possess the image of anything, and who, therefore, arouse less compassion. But there are lads who have been blind but a few months, who still recall everything, who thoroughly understand all that they have lost; and these have, in addition, the grief of feeling their minds obscured, the dearest images grow a little more dim in their minds day by day, of feeling the persons whom they have loved the most die out of their memories. One of these boys said to me one day, with inexpressible sadness, 'I should like to have my sight again, only for a moment, in order to see mamma's face once more, for I no longer remember it!' And when their mothers come to see them, the boys place their hands on her face; they feel her over thoroughly from brow to chin, and her ears, to see how they are made, and they can hardly persuade themselves that they cannot see her, and they call her by name many times, to beseech her that she will allow them, that she will make them see her just once. How many, even hard-hearted men, go away in tears! And when you do go out, your case seems to you to be the exception, and the power to see people, houses, and the sky a hardly deserved privilege. Oh! there is not one of you, I am sure, who, on emerging thence, would not feel disposed to deprive himself of a portion of his own sight, in order to bestow a gleam at least upon all those poor children, for whom the sun has no light, for whom a mother has no face!"

THE SICK MASTER.

Saturday, 25th.

Yesterday afternoon, on coming out of school, I went to pay a visit to my sick master. He made himself ill by overworking. Five hours of teaching a day, then an hour of gymnastics, then two hours more of evening school, which is equivalent to saying but little sleep, getting his food by snatches, and working breathlessly from morning till night. He has ruined his health. That is what my mother says. My mother was waiting for me at the big door; I came out alone, and on the stairs I met the teacher with the black beard—Coatti,—the one who frightens every one and punishes no one. He stared at me with wide-open eyes, and made his voice like that of a lion, in jest, but without laughing. I was still laughing when I pulled the bell on the fourth floor; but I ceased very suddenly when the servant let me into a wretched, half-lighted room, where my teacher was in bed. He was lying in a little iron bed. His beard was long. He put one hand to his brow in order to see better, and exclaimed in his affectionate voice:—

"Oh, Enrico!"

I approached the bed; he laid one hand on my shoulder and said:—

"Good, my boy. You have done well to come and see your poor teacher. I am reduced to a sad state, as you see, my dear Enrico. And how fares the school? How are your comrades getting along? All well, eh? Even without me? You do very well without your old master, do you not?"

I was on the point of saying "no"; he interrupted me.

"Come, come, I know that you do not hate me!" and he heaved a sigh.

I glanced at some photographs fastened to the wall.

"Do you see?" he said to me. "All of them are of boys who gave me their photographs more than twenty years ago. They were good boys. These are my souvenirs. When I die, my last glance will be at them; at those roguish urchins among whom my life has been passed. You will give me your portrait, also, will you not, when you have finished the elementary course?" Then he took an orange from his nightstand, and put it in my hand.

"I have nothing else to give you," he said; "it is the gift of a sick man."

I looked at it, and my heart was sad; I know not why.

"Attend to me," he began again. "I hope to get over this; but if I should not recover, see that you strengthen yourself in arithmetic, which is your weak point; make an effort. It is merely a question of a first effort: because sometimes there is no lack of aptitude; there is merely an absence of a fixed purpose—of stability, as it is called."

But in the meantime he was breathing hard; and it was evident that he was suffering.

"I am feverish," he sighed; "I am half gone; I beseech you, therefore, apply yourself to arithmetic, to problems. If you don't succeed at first, rest a little and begin afresh. And press forward, but quietly without fagging yourself, without straining your mind. Go! My respects to your mamma. And do not mount these stairs again. We shall see each other again in school. And if we do not, you must now and then call to mind your master of the third grade, who was fond of you."

I felt inclined to cry at these words.

"Bend down your head," he said to me.

I bent my head to his pillow; he kissed my hair. Then he said to me, "Go!" and turned his face towards the wall. And I flew down the stairs; for I longed to embrace my mother.

THE STREET.

Saturday, 25th.

I was watching you from the window this afternoon, when you were on your way home from the master's; you came in collision with a woman. Take more heed to your manner of walking in the street. There are duties to be fulfilled even there. If you keep your steps and gestures within bounds in a private house, why should you not do the same in the street, which is everybody's house. Remember this, Enrico. Every time that you meet a feeble old man, a poor person, a woman with a child in her arms, a cripple with his crutches, a man bending beneath a burden, a family dressed in mourning, make way for them respectfully. We must respect age, misery, maternal love, infirmity, labor, death. Whenever you see a person on the point of being run down by a vehicle, drag him away, if it is a child; warn him, if he is a man; always ask what ails the child who is crying all alone; pick up the aged man's cane, when he lets it fall. If two boys are fighting, separate them; if it is two men, go away: do not look on a scene of brutal violence, which offends and hardens the heart. And when a man passes, bound, and walking between a couple of policemen, do not add your curiosity to the cruel curiosity of the crowd; he may be innocent. Cease to talk with your companion, and to smile, when you meet a hospital litter, which is, perhaps, bearing a dying person, or a funeral procession; for one may issue from your own home on the morrow. Look with reverence upon all boys from the asylums, who walk two and two,—the blind, the dumb, those afflicted with the rickets, orphans, abandoned children; reflect that it is misfortune and human charity which is passing by. Always pretend not to notice any one who has a repulsive or laughter-provoking deformity. Always extinguish every match that you find in your path; for it may cost some one his life. Always answer a passer-by who asks you the way, with politeness. Do not look at any one and laugh; do not run without necessity; do not shout. Respect the street. The education of a people is judged first of all by their behavior on the street. Where you find offences in the streets, there you will find offences in the houses. And study the streets; study the city in which you live. If you were to be hurled far away from it to-morrow, you would be glad to have it clearly present in your memory, to be able to traverse it all again in memory. Your own city, and your little country—that which has been for so many years your world; where you took your first steps at your mother's side; where you experienced your first emotions, opened your mind to its first ideas; found your first friends. It has been a mother to you: it has taught you, loved you, protected you. Study it in its streets and in its people, and love it; and when you hear it insulted, defend it.

THY FATHER.



MARCH

THE EVENING SCHOOLS.

Thursday, 2d.

LAST night my father took me to see the evening schools in our Baretti schoolhouse, which were all lighted up already, and where the workingmen were already beginning to enter. On our arrival we found the head-master and the other masters in a great rage, because a little while before the glass in one window had been broken by a stone. The beadle had darted forth and seized a boy by the hair, who was passing; but thereupon, Stardi, who lives in the house opposite, had presented himself, and said:—

"This is not the right one; I saw it with my own eyes; it was Franti who threw it; and he said to me, 'Woe to you if you tell of me!' but I am not afraid."

Then the head-master declared that Franti should be expelled for good. In the meantime I was watching the workingmen enter by twos and threes; and more than two hundred had already entered. I have never seen anything so fine as the evening school. There were boys of twelve and upwards; bearded men who were on their way from their work, carrying their books and copy-books; there were carpenters, engineers with black faces, masons with hands white with plaster, bakers' boys with their hair full of flour; and there was perceptible the odor of varnish, hides, fish, oil,—odors of all the various trades. There also entered a squad of artillery workmen, dressed like soldiers and headed by a corporal. They all filed briskly to their benches, removed the board underneath, on which we put our feet, and immediately bent their heads over their work.

Some stepped up to the teachers to ask explanations, with their open copy-books in their hands. I caught sight of that young and well-dressed master "the little lawyer," who had three or four workingmen clustered round his table, and was making corrections with his pen; and also the lame one, who was laughing with a dyer who had brought him a copy-book all adorned with red and blue dyes. My master, who had recovered, and who will return to school to-morrow, was there also. The doors of the schoolroom were open. I was amazed, when the lessons began, to see how attentive they all were, and how they kept their eyes fixed on their work. Yet the greater part of them, so the head-master said, for fear of being late, had not even been home to eat a mouthful of supper, and they were hungry.

But the younger ones, after half an hour of school, were falling off the benches with sleep; one even went fast asleep with his head on the bench, and the master waked him up by poking his ear with a pen. But the grown-up men did nothing of the sort; they kept awake, and listened, with their mouths wide open, to the lesson, without even winking; and it made a deep impression on me to see all those bearded men on our benches. We also ascended to the story floor above, and I ran to the door of my schoolroom and saw in my seat a man with a big mustache and a bandaged hand, who might have injured himself while at work about some machine; but he was trying to write, though very, very slowly.

But what pleased me most was to behold in the seat of the little mason, on the very same bench and in the very same corner, his father, the mason, as huge as a giant, who sat there all coiled up into a narrow space, with his chin on his fists and his eyes on his book, so absorbed that he hardly breathed. And there was no chance about it, for it was he himself who said to the head-master the first evening he came to the school:—

"Signor Director, do me the favor to place me in the seat of 'my hare's face.'" For he always calls his son so.

My father kept me there until the end, and in the street we saw many women with children in their arms, waiting for their husbands; and at the entrance a change was effected: the husbands took the children in their arms, and the women made them surrender their books and copy-books; and in this wise they proceeded to their homes. For several minutes the street was filled with people and with noise. Then all grew silent, and all we could see was the tall and weary form of the head-master disappearing in the distance.

THE FIGHT.

Sunday, 5th.

It was what might have been expected. Franti, on being expelled by the head-master, wanted to revenge himself on Stardi, and he waited for Stardi at a corner, when he came out of school, and when the latter was passing with his sister, whom he escorts every day from an institution in the Via Dora Grossa. My sister Silvia, on emerging from her schoolhouse, witnessed the whole affair, and came home thoroughly terrified. This is what took place. Franti, with his cap of waxed cloth canted over one ear, ran up on tiptoe behind Stardi, and in order to provoke him, gave a tug at his sister's braid of hair,—a tug so violent that it almost threw the girl flat on her back on the ground. The little girl uttered a cry; her brother whirled round; Franti, who is much taller and stronger than Stardi, thought:—

"He'll not utter a word, or I'll break his skin for him!"

But Stardi never paused to reflect, and small and ill-made as he is, he flung himself with one bound on that big fellow, and began to belabor him with his fists. He could not hold his own, however, and he got more than he gave. There was no one in the street but girls, so there was no one who could separate them. Franti flung him on the ground; but the other instantly got up, and then down he went on his back again, and Franti pounded away as though upon a door: in an instant he had torn away half an ear, and bruised one eye, and drawn blood from the other's nose. But Stardi was tenacious; he roared:—

"You may kill me, but I'll make you pay for it!" And down went Franti, kicking and cuffing, and Stardi under him, butting and lungeing out with his heels. A woman shrieked from a window, "Good for the little one!" Others said, "It is a boy defending his sister; courage! give it to him well!" And they screamed at Franti, "You overbearing brute! you coward!" But Franti had grown ferocious; he held out his leg; Stardi tripped and fell, and Franti on top of him.

"Surrender!"—"No!"—"Surrender!"—"No!" and in a flash Stardi recovered his feet, clasped Franti by the body, and, with one furious effort, hurled him on the pavement, and fell upon him with one knee on his breast.

"Ah, the infamous fellow! he has a knife!" shouted a man, rushing up to disarm Franti.

But Stardi, beside himself with rage, had already grasped Franti's arm with both hands, and bestowed on the fist such a bite that the knife fell from it, and the hand began to bleed. More people had run up in the meantime, who separated them and set them on their feet. Franti took to his heels in a sorry plight, and Stardi stood still, with his face all scratched, and a black eye,—but triumphant,—beside his weeping sister, while some of the girls collected the books and copy-books which were strewn over the street.

"Bravo, little fellow!" said the bystanders; "he defended his sister!"

But Stardi, who was thinking more of his satchel than of his victory, instantly set to examining the books and copy-books, one by one, to see whether anything was missing or injured. He rubbed them off with his sleeve, scrutinized his pen, put everything back in its place, and then, tranquil and serious as usual, he said to his sister, "Let us go home quickly, for I have a problem to solve."

THE BOYS' PARENTS.

Monday, 6th.

This morning big Stardi, the father, came to wait for his son, fearing lest he should again encounter Franti. But they say that Franti will not be seen again, because he will be put in the penitentiary.

There were a great many parents there this morning. Among the rest there was the retail wood-dealer, the father of Coretti, the perfect image of his son, slender, brisk, with his mustache brought to a point, and a ribbon of two colors in the button-hole of his jacket. I know nearly all the parents of the boys, through constantly seeing them there. There is one crooked grandmother, with her white cap, who comes four times a day, whether it rains or snows or storms, to accompany and to get her little grandson, of the upper primary; and she takes off his little cloak and puts it on for him, adjusts his necktie, brushes off the dust, polishes him up, and takes care of the copy-books. It is evident that she has no other thought, that she sees nothing in the world more beautiful. The captain of artillery also comes frequently, the father of Robetti, the lad with the crutches, who saved a child from the omnibus, and as all his son's companions bestow a caress on him in passing, he returns a caress or a salute to every one, and he never forgets any one; he bends over all, and the poorer and more badly dressed they are, the more pleased he seems to be, and he thanks them.

At times, however, sad sights are to be seen. A gentleman who had not come for a month because one of his sons had died, and who had sent a maidservant for the other, on returning yesterday and beholding the class, the comrades of his little dead boy, retired into a corner and burst into sobs, with both hands before his face, and the head-master took him by the arm and led him to his office.

There are fathers and mothers who know all their sons' companions by name. There are girls from the neighboring schoolhouse, and scholars in the gymnasium, who come to wait for their brothers. There is one old gentleman who was a colonel formerly, and who, when a boy drops a copy-book or a pen, picks it up for him. There are also to be seen well-dressed men, who discuss school matters with others, who have kerchiefs on their heads, and baskets on their arm, and who say:—

"Oh! the problem has been a difficult one this time."—"That grammar lesson will never come to an end this morning!"

And when there is a sick boy in the class, they all know it; when a sick boy is convalescent, they all rejoice. And this morning there were eight or ten gentlemen and workingmen standing around Crossi's mother, the vegetable-vender, making inquiries about a poor baby in my brother's class, who lives in her court, and who is in danger of his life. The school seems to make them all equals and friends.

NUMBER 78.

Wednesday, 8th.

I witnessed a touching scene yesterday afternoon. For several days, every time that the vegetable-vender has passed Derossi she has gazed and gazed at him with an expression of great affection; for Derossi, since he made the discovery about that inkstand and prisoner Number 78, has acquired a love for her son, Crossi, the red-haired boy with the useless arm; and he helps him to do his work in school, suggests answers to him, gives him paper, pens, and pencils; in short, he behaves to him like a brother, as though to compensate him for his father's misfortune, which has affected him, although he does not know it.

The vegetable-vender had been gazing at Derossi for several days, and she seemed loath to take her eyes from him, for she is a good woman who lives only for her son; and Derossi, who assists him and makes him appear well, Derossi, who is a gentleman and the head of the school, seems to her a king, a saint. She continued to stare at him, and seemed desirous of saying something to him, yet ashamed to do it. But at last, yesterday morning, she took courage, stopped him in front of a gate, and said to him:—

"I beg a thousand pardons, little master! Will you, who are so kind to my son, and so fond of him, do me the favor to accept this little memento from a poor mother?" and she pulled out of her vegetable-basket a little pasteboard box of white and gold.

Derossi flushed up all over, and refused, saying with decision:—

"Give it to your son; I will accept nothing."

The woman was mortified, and stammered an excuse:—

"I had no idea of offending you. It is only caramels."

But Derossi said "no," again, and shook his head. Then she timidly lifted from her basket a bunch of radishes, and said:—

"Accept these at least,—they are fresh,—and carry them to your mamma."

Derossi smiled, and said:—

"No, thanks: I don't want anything; I shall always do all that I can for Crossi, but I cannot accept anything. I thank you all the same."

"But you are not at all offended?" asked the woman, anxiously.

Derossi said "No, no!" smiled, and went off, while she exclaimed, in great delight:—

"Oh, what a good boy! I have never seen so fine and handsome a boy as he!"

And that appeared to be the end of it. But in the afternoon, at four o'clock, instead of Crossi's mother, his father approached, with that gaunt and melancholy face of his. He stopped Derossi, and from the way in which he looked at the latter I instantly understood that he suspected Derossi of knowing his secret. He looked at him intently, and said in his sorrowful, affectionate voice:—

"You are fond of my son. Why do you like him so much?"

Derossi's face turned the color of fire. He would have liked to say: "I am fond of him because he has been unfortunate; because you, his father, have been more unfortunate than guilty, and have nobly expiated your crime, and are a man of heart." But he had not the courage to say it, for at bottom he still felt fear and almost loathing in the presence of this man who had shed another's blood, and had been six years in prison. But the latter divined it all, and lowering his voice, he said in Derossi's ear, almost trembling the while:—

"You love the son; but you do not hate, do not wholly despise the father, do you?"

"Ah, no, no! Quite the reverse!" exclaimed Derossi, with a soulful impulse. And then the man made an impetuous movement, as though to throw one arm round his neck; but he dared not, and instead he took one of the lad's golden curls between two of his fingers, smoothed it out, and released it; then he placed his hand on his mouth and kissed his palm, gazing at Derossi with moist eyes, as though to say that this kiss was for him. Then he took his son by the hand, and went away at a rapid pace.

A LITTLE DEAD BOY.

Monday, 13th.

The little boy who lived in the vegetable-vender's court, the one who belonged to the upper primary, and was the companion of my brother, is dead. Schoolmistress Delcati came in great affliction, on Saturday afternoon, to inform the master of it; and instantly Garrone and Coretti volunteered to carry the coffin. He was a fine little lad. He had won the medal last week. He was fond of my brother, and he had presented him with a broken money-box. My mother always caressed him when she met him. He wore a cap with two stripes of red cloth. His father is a porter on the railway. Yesterday (Sunday) afternoon, at half-past four o'clock, we went to his house, to accompany him to the church.

They live on the ground floor. Many boys of the upper primary, with their mothers, all holding candles, and five or six teachers and several neighbors were already collected in the courtyard. The mistress with the red feather and Signora Delcati had gone inside, and through an open window we beheld them weeping. We could hear the mother of the child sobbing loudly. Two ladies, mothers of two school companions of the dead child, had brought two garlands of flowers.

Exactly at five o'clock we set out. In front went a boy carrying a cross, then a priest, then the coffin,—a very, very small coffin, poor child!—covered with a black cloth, and round it were wound the garlands of flowers brought by the two ladies. On the black cloth, on one side, were fastened the medal and honorable mentions which the little boy had won in the course of the year. Garrone, Coretti, and two boys from the courtyard bore the coffin. Behind the coffin, first came Signora Delcati, who wept as though the little dead boy were her own; behind her the other schoolmistresses; and behind the mistresses, the boys, among whom were some very little ones, who carried bunches of violets in one hand, and who stared in amazement at the bier, while their other hand was held by their mothers, who carried candles. I heard one of them say, "And shall I not see him at school again?"

When the coffin emerged from the court, a despairing cry was heard from the window. It was the child's mother; but they made her draw back into the room immediately. On arriving in the street, we met the boys from a college, who were passing in double file, and on catching sight of the coffin with the medal and the schoolmistresses, they all pulled off their hats.

Poor little boy! he went to sleep forever with his medal. We shall never see his red cap again. He was in perfect health; in four days he was dead. On the last day he made an effort to rise and do his little task in nomenclature, and he insisted on keeping his medal on his bed for fear it would be taken from him. No one will ever take it from you again, poor boy! Farewell, farewell! We shall always remember thee at the Baretti School! Sleep in peace, dear little boy!

THE EVE OF THE FOURTEENTH OF MARCH.

To-day has been more cheerful than yesterday. The thirteenth of March! The eve of the distribution of prizes at the Theatre Vittorio Emanuele, the greatest and most beautiful festival of the whole year! But this time the boys who are to go upon the stage and present the certificates of the prizes to the gentlemen who are to bestow them are not to be taken at haphazard. The head-master came in this morning, at the close of school, and said:—

"Good news, boys!" Then he called, "Coraci!" the Calabrian. The Calabrian rose. "Would you like to be one of those to carry the certificates of the prizes to the authorities in the theatre to-morrow?" The Calabrian answered that he should.

"That is well," said the head-master; "then there will also be a representative of Calabria there; and that will be a fine thing. The municipal authorities are desirous that this year the ten or twelve lads who hand the prizes should be from all parts of Italy, and selected from all the public school buildings. We have twenty buildings, with five annexes—seven thousand pupils. Among such a multitude there has been no difficulty in finding one boy for each region of Italy. Two representatives of the Islands were found in the Torquato Tasso schoolhouse, a Sardinian, and a Sicilian; the Boncompagni School furnished a little Florentine, the son of a wood-carver; there is a Roman, a native of Rome, in the Tommaseo building; several Venetians, Lombards, and natives of Romagna have been found; the Monviso School gives us a Neapolitan, the son of an officer; we furnish a Genoese and a Calabrian,—you, Coraci,—with the Piemontese: that will make twelve. Does not this strike you as nice? It will be your brothers from all quarters of Italy who will give you your prizes. Look out! the whole twelve will appear on the stage together. Receive them with hearty applause. They are only boys, but they represent the country just as though they were men. A small tricolored flag is the symbol of Italy as much as a huge banner, is it not?

"Applaud them warmly, then. Let it be seen that your little hearts are all aglow, that your souls of ten years grow enthusiastic in the presence of the sacred image of your fatherland."

Having spoken thus, he went away, and the master said, with a smile, "So, Coraci, you are to be the deputy from Calabria."

And then all clapped their hands and laughed; and when we got into the street, we surrounded Coraci, seized him by the legs, lifted him on high, and set out to carry him in triumph, shouting, "Hurrah for the Deputy of Calabria!" by way of making a noise, of course; and not in jest, but quite the contrary, for the sake of making a celebration for him, and with a good will, for he is a boy who pleases every one; and he smiled. And thus we bore him as far as the corner, where we ran into a gentleman with a black beard, who began to laugh. The Calabrian said, "That is my father." And then the boys placed his son in his arms and ran away in all directions.

THE DISTRIBUTION OF PRIZES.

March 14th.

Towards two o'clock the vast theatre was crowded,—pit, gallery, boxes, stage, all were thronged; thousands of faces,—boys, gentlemen, teachers, workingmen, women of the people, babies. There was a moving of heads and hands, a flutter of feathers, ribbons, and curls, and loud and merry murmur which inspired cheerfulness. The theatre was all decorated with festoons of white, red, and green cloth. In the pit two little stairways had been erected: one on the right, which the winners of prizes were to ascend in order to reach the stage; the other, on the left, which they were to descend after receiving their prizes. On the front of the platform there was a row of red chairs; and from the back of the one in the centre hung two laurel crowns. At the back of the stage was a trophy of flags; on one side stood a small green table, and upon it lay all the certificates of premiums, tied with tricolored ribbons. The band of music was stationed in the pit, under the stage; the schoolmasters and mistresses filled all one side of the first balcony, which had been reserved for them; the benches and passages of the pit were crammed with hundreds of boys, who were to sing, and who had written music in their hands. At the back and all about, masters and mistresses could be seen going to and fro, arranging the prize scholars in lines; and it was full of parents who were giving a last touch to their hair and the last pull to their neckties.



No sooner had I entered my box with my family than I perceived in the opposite box the young mistress with the red feather, who was smiling and showing all the pretty dimples in her cheeks, and with her my brother's teacher and "the little nun," dressed wholly in black, and my kind mistress of the upper first; but she was so pale, poor thing! and coughed so hard, that she could be heard all over the theatre. In the pit I instantly espied Garrone's dear, big face and the little blond head of Nelli, who was clinging close to the other's shoulder. A little further on I saw Garoffi, with his owl's-beak nose, who was making great efforts to collect the printed catalogues of the prize-winners; and he already had a large bundle of them which he could put to some use in his bartering—we shall find out what it is to-morrow. Near the door was the wood-seller with his wife,—both dressed in festive attire,—together with their boy, who has a third prize in the second grade. I was amazed at no longer beholding the catskin cap and the chocolate-colored tights: on this occasion he was dressed like a little gentleman. In one balcony I caught a momentary glimpse of Votini, with a large lace collar; then he disappeared. In a proscenium box, filled with people, was the artillery captain, the father of Robetti, the boy with the crutches who saved the child from the omnibus.

On the stroke of two the band struck up, and at the same moment the mayor, the prefect, the judge, the provveditore, and many other gentlemen, all dressed in black, mounted the stairs on the right, and seated themselves on the red chairs at the front of the platform. The band ceased playing. The director of singing in the schools advanced with a baton in his hand. At a signal from him all the boys in the pit rose to their feet; at another sign they began to sing. There were seven hundred singing a very beautiful song,—seven hundred boys' voices singing together; how beautiful! All listened motionless: it was a slow, sweet, limpid song which seemed like a church chant. When they ceased, every one applauded; then they all became very still. The distribution of the prizes was about to begin. My little master of the second grade, with his red head and his quick eyes, who was to read the names of the prize-winners, had already advanced to the front of the stage. The entrance of the twelve boys who were to present the certificates was what they were waiting for. The newspapers had already stated that there would be boys from all the provinces of Italy. Every one knew it, and was watching for them and gazing curiously towards the spot where they were to enter, and the mayor and the other gentlemen gazed also, and the whole theatre was silent.

All at once the whole twelve arrived on the stage at a run, and remained standing there in line, with a smile. The whole theatre, three thousand persons, sprang up simultaneously, breaking into applause which sounded like a clap of thunder. The boys stood for a moment as though disconcerted. "Behold Italy!" said a voice on the stage. All at once I recognized Coraci, the Calabrian, dressed in black as usual. A gentleman belonging to the municipal government, who was with us and who knew them all, pointed them out to my mother. "That little blond is the representative of Venice. The Roman is that tall, curly-haired lad, yonder." Two or three of them were dressed like gentlemen; the others were sons of workingmen, but all were neatly clad and clean. The Florentine, who was the smallest, had a blue scarf round his body. They all passed in front of the mayor, who kissed them, one after the other, on the brow, while a gentleman seated next to him smilingly told him the names of their cities: "Florence, Naples, Bologna, Palermo." And as each passed by, the whole theatre clapped. Then they all ran to the green table, to take the certificates. The master began to read the list, mentioning the schoolhouses, the classes, the names; and the prize-winners began to mount the stage and to file past.