Chapter II: Part 2

The son of the charcoal-man had been a pupil of that schoolmistress Delcati who had come to see my brother when he was ill, and who had made us laugh by telling us how, two years ago, the mother of this boy had brought to her house a big apronful of charcoal, out of gratitude for her having given the medal to her son; and the poor woman had persisted, and had not been willing to carry the coal home again, and had wept when she was obliged to go away with her apron quite full. And she told us, also, of another good woman, who had brought her a very heavy bunch of flowers, inside of which there was a little hoard of soldi. We had been greatly diverted in listening to her, and so my brother had swallowed his medicine, which he had not been willing to do before. How much patience is necessary with those boys of the lower first, all toothless, like old men, who cannot pronounce their r's and s's; and one coughs, and another has the nosebleed, and another loses his shoes under the bench, and another bellows because he has pricked himself with his pen, and another one cries because he has bought copy-book No. 2 instead of No. 1. Fifty in a class, who know nothing, with those flabby little hands, and all of them must be taught to write; they carry in their pockets bits of licorice, buttons, phial corks, pounded brick,--all sorts of little things, and the teacher has to search them; but they conceal these objects even in their shoes. And they are not attentive: a fly enters through the window, and throws them all into confusion; and in summer they bring grass into school, and horn-bugs, which fly round in circles or fall into the inkstand, and then streak the copy-books all over with ink. The schoolmistress has to play mother to all of them, to help them dress themselves, bandage up their pricked fingers, pick up their caps when they drop them, watch to see that they do not exchange coats, and that they do not indulge in cat-calls and shrieks. Poor schoolmistresses! And then the mothers come to complain: "How comes it, signorina, that my boy has lost his pen? How does it happen that mine learns nothing? Why is not my boy mentioned honorably, when he knows so much? Why don't you have that nail which tore my Piero's trousers, taken out of the bench?"

Sometimes my brother's teacher gets into a rage with the boys; and when she can resist no longer, she bites her finger, to keep herself from dealing a blow; she loses patience, and then she repents, and caresses the child whom she has scolded; she sends a little rogue out of school, and then swallows her tears, and flies into a rage with parents who make the little ones fast by way of punishment. Schoolmistress Delcati is young and tall, well-dressed, brown of complexion, and restless; she does everything vivaciously, as though on springs, is affected by a mere trifle, and at such times speaks with great tenderness.

"But the children become attached to you, surely," my mother said to her.

"Many do," she replied; "but at the end of the year the majority of them pay no further heed to us. When they are with the masters, they are almost ashamed of having been with us--with a woman teacher. After two years of cares, after having loved a child so much, it makes us feel sad to part from him; but we say to ourselves, 'Oh, I am sure of that one; he is fond of me.' But the vacation over, he comes back to school. I run to meet him; 'Oh, my child, my child!' And he turns his head away." Here the teacher interrupted herself. "But you will not do so, little one?" she said, raising her humid eyes, and kissing my brother. "You will not turn aside your head, will you? You will not deny your poor friend?"

MY MOTHER.

Thursday, November 10th.

In the presence of your brother's teacher you failed in respect to
your mother! Let this never happen again, my Enrico, never again!
Your irreverent word pierced my heart like a point of steel. I
thought of your mother when, years ago, she bent the whole of one
night over your little bed, measuring your breathing, weeping blood
in her anguish, and with her teeth chattering with terror, because
she thought that she had lost you, and I feared that she would lose
her reason; and at this thought I felt a sentiment of horror at
you. You, to offend your mother! your mother, who would give a year
of happiness to spare you one hour of pain, who would beg for you,
who would allow herself to be killed to save your life! Listen,
Enrico. Fix this thought well in your mind. Reflect that you are
destined to experience many terrible days in the course of your
life: the most terrible will be that on which you lose your mother.
A thousand times, Enrico, after you are a man, strong, and inured
to all fates, you will invoke her, oppressed with an intense desire
to hear her voice, if but for a moment, and to see once more her
open arms, into which you can throw yourself sobbing, like a poor
child bereft of comfort and protection. How you will then recall
every bitterness that you have caused her, and with what remorse
you will pay for all, unhappy wretch! Hope for no peace in your
life, if you have caused your mother grief. You will repent, you
will beg her forgiveness, you will venerate her memory--in vain;
conscience will give you no rest; that sweet and gentle image will
always wear for you an expression of sadness and of reproach which
will put your soul to torture. Oh, Enrico, beware; this is the most
sacred of human affections; unhappy he who tramples it under foot.
The assassin who respects his mother has still something honest and
noble in his heart; the most glorious of men who grieves and
offends her is but a vile creature. Never again let a harsh word
issue from your lips, for the being who gave you life. And if one
should ever escape you, let it not be the fear of your father, but
let it be the impulse of your soul, which casts you at her feet, to
beseech her that she will cancel from your brow, with the kiss of
forgiveness, the stain of ingratitude. I love you, my son; you are
the dearest hope of my life; but I would rather see you dead than
ungrateful to your mother. Go away, for a little space; offer me no
more of your caresses; I should not be able to return them from my
heart.

THY FATHER.

MY COMPANION CORETTI.

Sunday, 13th.

My father forgave me; but I remained rather sad and then my mother sent me, with the porter's big son, to take a walk on the Corso. Half-way down the Corso, as we were passing a cart which was standing in front of a shop, I heard some one call me by name: I turned round; it was Coretti, my schoolmate, with chocolate-colored clothes and his catskin cap, all in a perspiration, but merry, with a big load of wood on his shoulders. A man who was standing in the cart was handing him an armful of wood at a time, which he took and carried into his father's shop, where he piled it up in the greatest haste.

"What are you doing, Coretti?" I asked him.

"Don't you see?" he answered, reaching out his arms to receive the load; "I am reviewing my lesson."

I laughed; but he seemed to be serious, and, having grasped the armful of wood, he began to repeat as he ran, "_The conjugation of the verb--consists in its variations according to number--according to number and person--_"

And then, throwing down the wood and piling it, "_according to the time--according to the time to which the action refers._"

And turning to the cart for another armful, "_according to the mode in which the action is enunciated._"

It was our grammar lesson for the following day. "What would you have me do?" he said. "I am putting my time to use. My father has gone off with the man on business; my mother is ill. It falls to me to do the unloading. In the meantime, I am going over my grammar lesson. It is a difficult lesson to-day; I cannot succeed in getting it into my head.--My father said that he would be here at seven o'clock to give you your money," he said to the man with the cart.

The cart drove off. "Come into the shop a minute," Coretti said to me. I went in. It was a large apartment, full of piles of wood and fagots, with a steelyard on one side.

"This is a busy day, I can assure you," resumed Coretti; "I have to do my work by fits and starts. I was writing my phrases, when some customers came in. I went to writing again, and behold, that cart arrived. I have already made two trips to the wood market in the Piazza Venezia this morning. My legs are so tired that I cannot stand, and my hands are all swollen. I should be in a pretty pickle if I had to draw!" And as he spoke he set about sweeping up the dry leaves and the straw which covered the brick-paved floor.

"But where do you do your work, Coretti?" I inquired.

"Not here, certainly," he replied. "Come and see"; and he led me into a little room behind the shop, which serves as a kitchen and dining-room, with a table in one corner, on which there were books and copy-books, and work which had been begun. "Here it is," he said; "I left the second answer unfinished: _with which shoes are made, and belts_. Now I will add, _and valises_." And, taking his pen, he began to write in his fine hand.

"Is there any one here?" sounded a call from the shop at that moment. It was a woman who had come to buy some little fagots.

"Here I am!" replied Coretti; and he sprang out, weighed the fagots, took the money, ran to a corner to enter the sale in a shabby old account-book, and returned to his work, saying, "Let's see if I can finish that sentence." And he wrote, _travelling-bags, and knapsacks for soldiers_. "Oh, my poor coffee is boiling over!" he exclaimed, and ran to the stove to take the coffee-pot from the fire. "It is coffee for mamma," he said; "I had to learn how to make it. Wait a while, and we will carry it to her; you'll see what pleasure it will give her. She has been in bed a whole week.--Conjugation of the verb! I always scald my fingers with this coffee-pot. What is there that I can add after the soldiers' knapsacks? Something more is needed, and I can think of nothing. Come to mamma."

He opened a door, and we entered another small room: there Coretti's mother lay in a big bed, with a white kerchief wound round her head.

"Ah, brave little master!" said the woman to me; "you have come to visit the sick, have you not?"

Meanwhile, Coretti was arranging the pillows behind his mother's back, readjusting the bedclothes, brightening up the fire, and driving the cat off the chest of drawers.

"Do you want anything else, mamma?" he asked, as he took the cup from her. "Have you taken the two spoonfuls of syrup? When it is all gone, I will make a trip to the apothecary's. The wood is unloaded. At four o'clock I will put the meat on the stove, as you told me; and when the butter-woman passes, I will give her those eight soldi. Everything will go on well; so don't give it a thought."

"Thanks, my son!" replied the woman. "Go, my poor boy!--he thinks of everything."

She insisted that I should take a lump of sugar; and then Coretti showed me a little picture,--the photograph portrait of his father dressed as a soldier, with the medal for bravery which he had won in 1866, in the troop of Prince Umberto: he had the same face as his son, with the same vivacious eyes and his merry smile.

We went back to the kitchen. "I have found the thing," said Coretti; and he added on his copy-book, _horse-trappings are also made of it_. "The rest I will do this evening; I shall sit up later. How happy you are, to have time to study and to go to walk, too!" And still gay and active, he re-entered the shop, and began to place pieces of wood on the horse and to saw them, saying: "This is gymnastics; it is quite different from the _throw your arms forwards_. I want my father to find all this wood sawed when he gets home; how glad he will be! The worst part of it is that after sawing I make T's and L's which look like snakes, so the teacher says. What am I to do? I will tell him that I have to move my arms about. The important thing is to have mamma get well quickly. She is better to-day, thank Heaven! I will study my grammar to-morrow morning at cock-crow. Oh, here's the cart with logs! To work!"

A small cart laden with logs halted in front of the shop. Coretti ran out to speak to the man, then returned: "I cannot keep your company any longer now," he said; "farewell until to-morrow. You did right to come and hunt me up. A pleasant walk to you! happy fellow!"

And pressing my hand, he ran to take the first log, and began once more to trot back and forth between the cart and the shop, with a face as fresh as a rose beneath his catskin cap, and so alert that it was a pleasure to see him.

"Happy fellow!" he had said to me. Ah, no, Coretti, no; you are the happier, because you study and work too; because you are of use to your father and your mother; because you are better--a hundred times better--and more courageous than I, my dear schoolmate.

THE HEAD-MASTER.

Friday, 18th.

Coretti was pleased this morning, because his master of the second class, Coatti, a big man, with a huge head of curly hair, a great black beard, big dark eyes, and a voice like a cannon, had come to assist in the work of the monthly examination. He is always threatening the boys that he will break them in pieces and carry them by the nape of the neck to the quæstor, and he makes all sorts of frightful faces; but he never punishes any one, but always smiles the while behind his beard, so that no one can see it. There are eight masters in all, including Coatti, and a little, beardless assistant, who looks like a boy. There is one master of the fourth class, who is lame and always wrapped up in a big woollen scarf, and who is always suffering from pains which he contracted when he was a teacher in the country, in a damp school, where the walls were dripping with moisture. Another of the teachers of the fourth is old and perfectly white-haired, and has been a teacher of the blind. There is one well-dressed master, with eye-glasses, and a blond mustache, who is called the _little lawyer_, because, while he was teaching, he studied law and took his diploma; and he is also making a book to teach how to write letters. On the other hand, the one who teaches gymnastics is of a soldierly type, and was with Garibaldi, and has on his neck a scar from a sabre wound received at the battle of Milazzo. Then there is the head-master, who is tall and bald, and wears gold spectacles, with a gray beard that flows down upon his breast; he dresses entirely in black, and is always buttoned up to the chin. He is so kind to the boys, that when they enter the director's room, all in a tremble, because they have been summoned to receive a reproof, he does not scold them, but takes them by the hand, and tells them so many reasons why they ought not to behave so, and why they should be sorry, and promise to be good, and he speaks in such a kind manner, and in so gentle a voice, that they all come out with red eyes, more confused than if they had been punished. Poor head-master! he is always the first at his post in the morning, waiting for the scholars and lending an ear to the parents; and when the other masters are already on their way home, he is still hovering about the school, and looking out that the boys do not get under the carriage-wheels, or hang about the streets to stand on their heads, or fill their bags with sand or stones; and the moment he makes his appearance at a corner, so tall and black, flocks of boys scamper off in all directions, abandoning their games of coppers and marbles, and he threatens them from afar with his forefinger, with his sad and loving air. No one has ever seen him smile, my mother says, since the death of his son, who was a volunteer in the army: he always keeps the latter's portrait before his eyes, on a little table in the head-master's room. He wanted to go away after this misfortune; he prepared his application for retirement to the Municipal Council, and kept it always on his table, putting off sending it from day to day, because it grieved him to leave the boys. But the other day he seemed undecided; and my father, who was in the director's room with him, was just saying to him, "What a shame it is that you are going away, Signor Director!" when a man entered for the purpose of inscribing the name of a boy who was to be transferred from another schoolhouse to ours, because he had changed his residence. At the sight of this boy, the head-master made a gesture of astonishment, gazed at him for a while, gazed at the portrait that he keeps on his little table, and then stared at the boy again, as he drew him between his knees, and made him hold up his head. This boy resembled his dead son. The head-master said, "It is all right," wrote down his name, dismissed the father and son, and remained absorbed in thought. "What a pity that you are going away!" repeated my father. And then the head-master took up his application for retirement, tore it in two, and said, "I shall remain."

THE SOLDIERS.

Tuesday, 22d.

His son had been a volunteer in the army when he died: this is the reason why the head-master always goes to the Corso to see the soldiers pass, when we come out of school. Yesterday a regiment of infantry was passing, and fifty boys began to dance around the band, singing and beating time with their rulers on their bags and portfolios. We were standing in a group on the sidewalk, watching them: Garrone, squeezed into his clothes, which were too tight for him, was biting at a large piece of bread; Votini, the well-dressed boy, who always wears Florence plush; Precossi, the son of the blacksmith, with his father's jacket; and the Calabrian; and the "little mason"; and Crossi, with his red head; and Franti, with his bold face; and Robetti, too, the son of the artillery captain, the boy who saved the child from the omnibus, and who now walks on crutches. Franti burst into a derisive laugh, in the face of a soldier who was limping. But all at once he felt a man's hand on his shoulder: he turned round; it was the head-master. "Take care," said the master to him; "jeering at a soldier when he is in the ranks, when he can neither avenge himself nor reply, is like insulting a man who is bound: it is baseness."

Franti disappeared. The soldiers were marching by fours, all perspiring and covered with dust, and their guns were gleaming in the sun. The head-master said:--

"You ought to feel kindly towards soldiers, boys. They are our defenders, who would go to be killed for our sakes, if a foreign army were to menace our country to-morrow. They are boys too; they are not many years older than you; and they, too, go to school; and there are poor men and gentlemen among them, just as there are among you, and they come from every part of Italy. See if you cannot recognize them by their faces; Sicilians are passing, and Sardinians, and Neapolitans, and Lombards. This is an old regiment, one of those which fought in 1848. They are not the same soldiers, but the flag is still the same. How many have already died for our country around that banner twenty years before you were born!"

"Here it is!" said Garrone. And in fact, not far off, the flag was visible, advancing, above the heads of the soldiers.

"Do one thing, my sons," said the head-master; "make your scholar's salute, with your hand to your brow, when the tricolor passes."

The flag, borne by an officer, passed before us, all tattered and faded, and with the medals attached to the staff. We put our hands to our foreheads, all together. The officer looked at us with a smile, and returned our salute with his hand.

"Bravi, boys!" said some one behind us. We turned to look; it was an old man who wore in his button-hole the blue ribbon of the Crimean campaign--a pensioned officer. "Bravi!" he said; "you have done a fine deed."

In the meantime, the band of the regiment had made a turn at the end of the Corso, surrounded by a throng of boys, and a hundred merry shouts accompanied the blasts of the trumpets, like a war-song.

"Bravi!" repeated the old officer, as he gazed upon us; "he who respects the flag when he is little will know how to defend it when he is grown up."

NELLI'S PROTECTOR.

Wednesday, 23d.

Nelli, too, poor little hunchback! was looking at the soldiers yesterday, but with an air as though he were thinking, "I can never be a soldier!" He is good, and he studies; but he is so puny and wan, and he breathes with difficulty. He always wears a long apron of shining black cloth. His mother is a little blond woman who dresses in black, and always comes to get him at the end of school, so that he may not come out in the confusion with the others, and she caresses him. At first many of the boys ridiculed him, and thumped him on the back with their bags, because he is so unfortunate as to be a hunchback; but he never offered any resistance, and never said anything to his mother, in order not to give her the pain of knowing that her son was the laughing-stock of his companions: they derided him, and he held his peace and wept, with his head laid against the bench.

But one morning Garrone jumped up and said, "The first person who touches Nelli will get such a box on the ear from me that he will spin round three times!"

Franti paid no attention to him; the box on the ear was delivered: the fellow spun round three times, and from that time forth no one ever touched Nelli again. The master placed Garrone near him, on the same bench. They have become friends. Nelli has grown very fond of Garrone. As soon as he enters the schoolroom he looks to see if Garrone is there. He never goes away without saying, "Good by, Garrone," and Garrone does the same with him.

When Nelli drops a pen or a book under the bench, Garrone stoops quickly, to prevent his stooping and tiring himself, and hands him his book or his pen, and then he helps him to put his things in his bag and to twist himself into his coat. For this Nelli loves him, and gazes at him constantly; and when the master praises Garrone he is pleased, as though he had been praised himself. Nelli must at last have told his mother all about the ridicule of the early days, and what they made him suffer; and about the comrade who defended him, and how he had grown fond of the latter; for this is what happened this morning. The master had sent me to carry to the director, half an hour before the close of school, a programme of the lesson, and I entered the office at the same moment with a small blond woman dressed in black, the mother of Nelli, who said, "Signor Director, is there in the class with my son a boy named Garrone?"

"Yes," replied the head-master.

"Will you have the goodness to let him come here for a moment, as I have a word to say to him?"

The head-master called the beadle and sent him to the school, and after a minute Garrone appeared on the threshold, with his big, close-cropped head, in perfect amazement. No sooner did she catch sight of him than the woman flew to meet him, threw her arms on his shoulders, and kissed him a great many times on the head, saying:--

"You are Garrone, the friend of my little son, the protector of my poor child; it is you, my dear, brave boy; it is you!" Then she searched hastily in all her pockets, and in her purse, and finding nothing, she detached a chain from her neck, with a small cross, and put it on Garrone's neck, underneath his necktie, and said to him:--

"Take it! wear it in memory of me, my dear boy; in memory of Nelli's mother, who thanks and blesses you."

THE HEAD OF THE CLASS.

Friday, 25th.

Garrone attracts the love of all; Derossi, the admiration. He has taken the first medal; he will always be the first, and this year also; no one can compete with him; all recognize his superiority in all points. He is the first in arithmetic, in grammar, in composition, in drawing; he understands everything on the instant; he has a marvellous memory; he succeeds in everything without effort; it seems as though study were play to him. The teacher said to him yesterday:--

"You have received great gifts from God; all you have to do is not to squander them." He is, moreover, tall and handsome, with a great crown of golden curls; he is so nimble that he can leap over a bench by resting one hand on it; and he already understands fencing. He is twelve years old, and the son of a merchant; he is always dressed in blue, with gilt buttons; he is always lively, merry, gracious to all, and helps all he can in examinations; and no one has ever dared to do anything disagreeable to him, or to say a rough word to him. Nobis and Franti alone look askance at him, and Votini darts envy from his eyes; but he does not even perceive it. All smile at him, and take his hand or his arm, when he goes about, in his graceful way, to collect the work. He gives away illustrated papers, drawings, everything that is given him at home; he has made a little geographical chart of Calabria for the Calabrian lad; and he gives everything with a smile, without paying any heed to it, like a grand gentleman, and without favoritism for any one. It is impossible not to envy him, not to feel smaller than he in everything. Ah! I, too, envy him, like Votini. And I feel a bitterness, almost a certain scorn, for him, sometimes, when I am striving to accomplish my work at home, and think that he has already finished his, at this same moment, extremely well, and without fatigue. But then, when I return to school, and behold him so handsome, so smiling and triumphant, and hear how frankly and confidently he replies to the master's questions, and how courteous he is, and how the others all like him, then all bitterness, all scorn, departs from my heart, and I am ashamed of having experienced these sentiments. I should like to be always near him at such times; I should like to be able to do all my school tasks with him: his presence, his voice, inspire me with courage, with a will to work, with cheerfulness and pleasure.

The teacher has given him the monthly story, which will be read to-morrow, to copy,--_The Little Vidette of Lombardy_. He copied it this morning, and was so much affected by that heroic deed, that his face was all aflame, his eyes humid, and his lips trembling; and I gazed at him: how handsome and noble he was! With what pleasure would I not have said frankly to his face: "Derossi, you are worth more than I in everything! You are a man in comparison with me! I respect you and I admire you!"

THE LITTLE VIDETTE OF LOMBARDY.

(_Monthly Story._)

Saturday, 26th.

In 1859, during the war for the liberation of Lombardy, a few days after the battle of Solfarino and San Martino, won by the French and Italians over the Austrians, on a beautiful morning in the month of June, a little band of cavalry of Saluzzo was proceeding at a slow pace along a retired path, in the direction of the enemy, and exploring the country attentively. The troop was commanded by an officer and a sergeant, and all were gazing into the distance ahead of them, with eyes fixed, silent, and prepared at any moment to see the uniforms of the enemy's advance-posts gleam white before them through the trees. In this order they arrived at a rustic cabin, surrounded by ash-trees, in front of which stood a solitary boy, about twelve years old, who was removing the bark from a small branch with a knife, in order to make himself a stick of it. From one window of the little house floated a large tricolored flag; there was no one inside: the peasants had fled, after hanging out the flag, for fear of the Austrians. As soon as the lad saw the cavalry, he flung aside his stick and raised his cap. He was a handsome boy, with a bold face and large blue eyes and long golden hair: he was in his shirt-sleeves and his breast was bare.

"What are you doing here?" the officer asked him, reining in his horse. "Why did you not flee with your family?"

"I have no family," replied the boy. "I am a foundling. I do a little work for everybody. I remained here to see the war."

"Have you seen any Austrians pass?"

"No; not for these three days."

The officer paused a while in thought; then he leaped from his horse, and leaving his soldiers there, with their faces turned towards the foe, he entered the house and mounted to the roof. The house was low; from the roof only a small tract of country was visible. "It will be necessary to climb the trees," said the officer, and descended. Just in front of the garden plot rose a very lofty and slender ash-tree, which was rocking its crest in the azure. The officer stood a brief space in thought, gazing now at the tree, and again at the soldiers; then, all of a sudden, he asked the lad:--

"Is your sight good, you monkey?"

"Mine?" replied the boy. "I can spy a young sparrow a mile away."

"Are you good for a climb to the top of this tree?"

"To the top of this tree? I? I'll be up there in half a minute."

"And will you be able to tell me what you see up there--if there are Austrian soldiers in that direction, clouds of dust, gleaming guns, horses?"

"Certainly I shall."

"What do you demand for this service?"

"What do I demand?" said the lad, smiling. "Nothing. A fine thing, indeed! And then--if it were for the _Germans_, I wouldn't do it on any terms; but for our men! I am a Lombard!"

"Good! Then up with you."

"Wait a moment, until I take off my shoes."

He pulled off his shoes, tightened the girth of his trousers, flung his cap on the grass, and clasped the trunk of the ash.

"Take care, now!" exclaimed the officer, making a movement to hold him back, as though seized with a sudden terror.

The boy turned to look at him, with his handsome blue eyes, as though interrogating him.

"No matter," said the officer; "up with you."

Up went the lad like a cat.

"Keep watch ahead!" shouted the officer to the soldiers.

In a few moments the boy was at the top of the tree, twined around the trunk, with his legs among the leaves, but his body displayed to view, and the sun beating down on his blond head, which seemed to be of gold. The officer could hardly see him, so small did he seem up there.

"Look straight ahead and far away!" shouted the officer.

The lad, in order to see better, removed his right hand from the tree, and shaded his eyes with it.

"What do you see?" asked the officer.

The boy inclined his head towards him, and making a speaking-trumpet of his hand, replied, "Two men on horseback, on the white road."

"At what distance from here?"

"Half a mile."

"Are they moving?"

"They are standing still."

"What else do you see?" asked the officer, after a momentary silence. "Look to the right." The boy looked to the right.

Then he said: "Near the cemetery, among the trees, there is something glittering. It seems to be bayonets."

"Do you see men?"

"No. They must be concealed in the grain."

At that moment a sharp whiz of a bullet passed high up in the air, and died away in the distance, behind the house.

"Come down, my lad!" shouted the officer. "They have seen you. I don't want anything more. Come down."

"I'm not afraid," replied the boy.

"Come down!" repeated the officer. "What else do you see to the left?"

"To the left?"

"Yes, to the left."

The lad turned his head to the left: at that moment, another whistle, more acute and lower than the first, cut the air. The boy was thoroughly aroused. "Deuce take them!" he exclaimed. "They actually are aiming at me!" The bullet had passed at a short distance from him.

"Down!" shouted the officer, imperious and irritated.

"I'll come down presently," replied the boy. "But the tree shelters me. Don't fear. You want to know what there is on the left?"

"Yes, on the left," answered the officer; "but come down."

"On the left," shouted the lad, thrusting his body out in that direction, "yonder, where there is a chapel, I think I see--"

A third fierce whistle passed through the air, and almost instantaneously the boy was seen to descend, catching for a moment at the trunk and branches, and then falling headlong with arms outspread.

"Curse it!" exclaimed the officer, running up.

The boy landed on the ground, upon his back, and remained stretched out there, with arms outspread and supine; a stream of blood flowed from his breast, on the left. The sergeant and two soldiers leaped from their horses; the officer bent over and opened his shirt: the ball had entered his left lung. "He is dead!" exclaimed the officer.

"No, he still lives!" replied the sergeant.--"Ah, poor boy! brave boy!" cried the officer. "Courage, courage!" But while he was saying "courage," he was pressing his handkerchief on the wound. The boy rolled his eyes wildly and dropped his head back. He was dead. The officer turned pale and stood for a moment gazing at him; then he laid him down carefully on his cloak upon the grass; then rose and stood looking at him; the sergeant and two soldiers also stood motionless, gazing upon him: the rest were facing in the direction of the enemy.

"Poor boy!" repeated the officer. "Poor, brave boy!"

Then he approached the house, removed the tricolor from the window, and spread it in guise of a funeral pall over the little dead boy, leaving his face uncovered. The sergeant collected the dead boy's shoes, cap, his little stick, and his knife, and placed them beside him.

They stood for a few moments longer in silence; then the officer turned to the sergeant and said to him, "We will send the ambulance for him: he died as a soldier; the soldiers shall bury him." Having said this, he wafted a kiss with his hand to the dead boy, and shouted "To horse!" All sprang into the saddle, the troop drew together and resumed its road.

And a few hours later the little dead boy received the honors of war.

At sunset the whole line of the Italian advance-posts marched forward towards the foe, and along the same road which had been traversed in the morning by the detachment of cavalry, there proceeded, in two files, a heavy battalion of sharpshooters, who, a few days before, had valiantly watered the hill of San Martino with blood. The news of the boy's death had already spread among the soldiers before they left the encampment. The path, flanked by a rivulet, ran a few paces distant from the house. When the first officers of the battalion caught sight of the little body stretched at the foot of the ash-tree and covered with the tricolored banner, they made the salute to it with their swords, and one of them bent over the bank of the streamlet, which was covered with flowers at that spot, plucked a couple of blossoms and threw them on it. Then all the sharpshooters, as they passed, plucked flowers and threw them on the body. In a few minutes the boy was covered with flowers, and officers and soldiers all saluted him as they passed by: "Bravo, little Lombard!" "Farewell, my lad!" "I salute thee, gold locks!" "Hurrah!" "Glory!" "Farewell!" One officer tossed him his medal for valor; another went and kissed his brow. And flowers continued to rain down on his bare feet, on his blood-stained breast, on his golden head. And there he lay asleep on the grass, enveloped in his flag, with a white and almost smiling face, poor boy! as though he heard these salutes and was glad that he had given his life for his Lombardy.

THE POOR.

Tuesday, 29th.

To give one's life for one's country as the Lombard boy did, is a
great virtue; but you must not neglect the lesser virtues, my son.
This morning as you walked in front of me, when we were returning
from school, you passed near a poor woman who was holding between
her knees a thin, pale child, and who asked alms of you. You looked
at her and gave her nothing, and yet you had some coppers in your
pocket. Listen, my son. Do not accustom yourself to pass
indifferently before misery which stretches out its hand to you and
far less before a mother who asks a copper for her child. Reflect
that the child may be hungry; think of the agony of that poor
woman. Picture to yourself the sob of despair of your mother, if
she were some day forced to say, "Enrico, I cannot give you any
bread even to-day!" When I give a soldo to a beggar, and he says to
me, "God preserve your health, and the health of all belonging to
you!" you cannot understand the sweetness which these words produce
in my heart, the gratitude that I feel for that poor man. It seems
to me certain that such a good wish must keep one in good health
for a long time, and I return home content, and think, "Oh, that
poor man has returned to me very much more than I gave him!" Well,
let me sometimes feel that good wish called forth, merited by you;
draw a soldo from your little purse now and then, and let it fall
into the hand of a blind man without means of subsistence, of a
mother without bread, of a child without a mother. The poor love
the alms of boys, because it does not humiliate them, and because
boys, who stand in need of everything, resemble themselves: you see
that there are always poor people around the schoolhouses. The alms
of a man is an act of charity; but that of a child is at one and
the same time an act of charity and a caress--do you understand? It
is as though a soldo and a flower fell from your hand together.
Reflect that you lack nothing, and that they lack everything, that
while you aspire to be happy, they are content simply with not
dying. Reflect, that it is a horror, in the midst of so many
palaces, along the streets thronged with carriages, and children
clad in velvet, that there should be women and children who have
nothing to eat. To have nothing to eat! O God! Boys like you, as
good as you, as intelligent as you, who, in the midst of a great
city, have nothing to eat, like wild beasts lost in a desert! Oh,
never again, Enrico, pass a mother who is begging, without placing
a soldo in her hand!

THY FATHER.

DECEMBER.

THE TRADER.

Thursday, 1st.

MY father wishes me to have some one of my companions come to the house every holiday, or that I should go to see one of them, in order that I may gradually become friends with all of them. Sunday I shall go to walk with Votini, the well-dressed boy who is always polishing himself up, and who is so envious of Derossi. In the meantime, Garoffi came to the house to-day,--that long, lank boy, with the nose like an owl's beak, and small, knavish eyes, which seem to be ferreting everywhere. He is the son of a grocer; he is an eccentric fellow; he is always counting the soldi that he has in his pocket; he reckons them on his fingers very, very rapidly, and goes through some process of multiplication without any tables; and he hoards his money, and already has a book in the Scholars' Savings Bank. He never spends a soldo, I am positive; and if he drops a centesimo under the benches, he is capable of hunting for it for a week. He does as magpies do, so Derossi says. Everything that he finds--worn-out pens, postage-stamps that have been used, pins, candle-ends--he picks up. He has been collecting postage-stamps for more than two years now; and he already has hundreds of them from every country, in a large album, which he will sell to a bookseller later on, when he has got it quite full. Meanwhile, the bookseller gives him his copy-books gratis, because he takes a great many boys to the shop. In school, he is always bartering; he effects sales of little articles every day, and lotteries and exchanges; then he regrets the exchange, and wants his stuff back; he buys for two and gets rid of it for four; he plays at pitch-penny, and never loses; he sells old newspapers over again to the tobacconist; and he keeps a little blank-book, in which he sets down his transactions, which is completely filled with sums and subtractions. At school he studies nothing but arithmetic; and if he desires the medal, it is only that he may have a free entrance into the puppet-show. But he pleases me; he amuses me. We played at keeping a market, with weights and scales. He knows the exact price of everything; he understands weighing, and makes handsome paper horns, like shopkeepers, with great expedition. He declares that as soon as he has finished school he shall set up in business--in a new business which he has invented himself. He was very much pleased when I gave him some foreign postage-stamps; and he informed me exactly how each one sold for collections. My father pretended to be reading the newspaper; but he listened to him, and was greatly diverted. His pockets are bulging, full of his little wares; and he covers them up with a long black cloak, and always appears thoughtful and preoccupied with business, like a merchant. But the thing that he has nearest his heart is his collection of postage-stamps. This is his treasure; and he always speaks of it as though he were going to get a fortune out of it. His companions accuse him of miserliness and usury. I do not know: I like him; he teaches me a great many things; he seems a man to me. Coretti, the son of the wood-merchant, says that he would not give him his postage-stamps to save his mother's life. My father does not believe it.

"Wait a little before you condemn him," he said to me; "he has this passion, but he has heart as well."

VANITY.

Monday, 5th.

Yesterday I went to take a walk along the Rivoli road with Votini and his father. As we were passing through the Via Dora Grossa we saw Stardi, the boy who kicks disturbers, standing stiffly in front of the window of a book-shop, with his eyes fixed on a geographical map; and no one knows how long he had been there, because he studies even in the street. He barely returned our salute, the rude fellow! Votini was well dressed--even too much so. He had on morocco boots embroidered in red, an embroidered coat, small silken frogs, a white beaver hat, and a watch; and he strutted. But his vanity was destined to come to a bad end on this occasion. After having run a tolerably long distance up the Rivoli road, leaving his father, who was walking slowly, a long way in the rear, we halted at a stone seat, beside a modestly clad boy, who appeared to be weary, and was meditating, with drooping head. A man, who must have been his father, was walking to and fro under the trees, reading the newspaper. We sat down. Votini placed himself between me and the boy. All at once he recollected that he was well dressed, and wanted to make his neighbor admire and envy him.

He lifted one foot, and said to me, "Have you seen my officer's boots?" He said this in order to make the other boy look at them; but the latter paid no attention to them.

Then he dropped his foot, and showed me his silk frogs, glancing askance at the boy the while, and said that these frogs did not please him, and that he wanted to have them changed to silver buttons; but the boy did not look at the frogs either.

Then Votini fell to twirling his very handsome white castor hat on the tip of his forefinger; but the boy--and it seemed as though he did it on purpose--did not deign even a glance at the hat.

Votini, who began to become irritated, drew out his watch, opened it, and showed me the wheels; but the boy did not turn his head. "Is it of silver gilt?" I asked him.

"No," he replied; "it is gold."

"But not entirely of gold," I said; "there must be some silver with it."

"Why, no!" he retorted; and, in order to compel the boy to look, he held the watch before his face, and said to him, "Say, look here! isn't it true that it is entirely of gold?"

The boy replied curtly, "I don't know."

"Oh! oh!" exclaimed Votini, full of wrath, "what pride!"

As he was saying this, his father came up, and heard him; he looked steadily at the lad for a moment, then said sharply to his son, "Hold your tongue!" and, bending down to his ear, he added, "he is blind!"

Votini sprang to his feet, with a shudder, and stared the boy in the face: the latter's eyeballs were glassy, without expression, without sight.

Votini stood humbled,--speechless,--with his eyes fixed on the ground. At length he stammered, "I am sorry; I did not know."

But the blind boy, who had understood it all, said, with a kind and melancholy smile, "Oh, it's no matter!"

Well, he is vain; but Votini has not at all a bad heart. He never laughed again during the whole of the walk.

THE FIRST SNOW-STORM.

Saturday, 10th.

Farewell, walks to Rivoli! Here is the beautiful friend of the boys! Here is the first snow! Ever since yesterday evening it has been falling in thick flakes as large as gillyflowers. It was a pleasure this morning at school to see it beat against the panes and pile up on the window-sills; even the master watched it, and rubbed his hands; and all were glad, when they thought of making snowballs, and of the ice which will come later, and of the hearth at home. Stardi, entirely absorbed in his lessons, and with his fists pressed to his temples, was the only one who paid no attention to it. What beauty, what a celebration there was when we left school! All danced down the streets, shouting and tossing their arms, catching up handfuls of snow, and dashing about in it, like poodles in water. The umbrellas of the parents, who were waiting for them outside, were all white; the policeman's helmet was white; all our satchels were white in a few moments. Every one appeared to be beside himself with joy--even Precossi, the son of the blacksmith, that pale boy who never laughs; and Robetti, the lad who saved the little child from the omnibus, poor fellow! he jumped about on his crutches. The Calabrian, who had never touched snow, made himself a little ball of it, and began to eat it, as though it had been a peach; Crossi, the son of the vegetable-vendor, filled his satchel with it; and the little mason made us burst with laughter, when my father invited him to come to our house to-morrow. He had his mouth full of snow, and, not daring either to spit it out or to swallow it, he stood there choking and staring at us, and made no answer. Even the schoolmistress came out of school on a run, laughing; and my mistress of the first upper class, poor little thing! ran through the drizzling snow, covering her face with her green veil, and coughing; and meanwhile, hundreds of girls from the neighboring schoolhouse passed by, screaming and frolicking on that white carpet; and the masters and the beadles and the policemen shouted, "Home! home!" swallowing flakes of snow, and whitening their moustaches and beards. But they, too, laughed at this wild hilarity of the scholars, as they celebrated the winter.

You hail the arrival of winter; but there are boys who have neither
clothes nor shoes nor fire. There are thousands of them, who
descend to their villages, over a long road, carrying in hands
bleeding from chilblains a bit of wood to warm the schoolroom.
There are hundreds of schools almost buried in the snow, bare and
dismal as caves, where the boys suffocate with smoke or chatter
their teeth with cold as they gaze in terror at the white flakes
which descend unceasingly, which pile up without cessation on their
distant cabins threatened by avalanches. You rejoice in the winter,
boys. Think of the thousands of creatures to whom winter brings
misery and death.

THY FATHER.

THE LITTLE MASON.

Sunday, 11th.

The little mason came to-day, in a hunting-jacket, entirely dressed in the cast-off clothes of his father, which were still white with lime and plaster. My father was even more anxious than I that he should come. How much pleasure he gives us! No sooner had he entered than he pulled off his ragged cap, which was all soaked with snow, and thrust it into one of his pockets; then he advanced with his listless gait, like a weary workman, turning his face, as smooth as an apple, with its ball-like nose, from side to side; and when he entered the dining-room, he cast a glance round at the furniture and fixed his eyes on a small picture of Rigoletto, a hunchbacked jester, and made a "hare's face."