_OCTOBER._
FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL.
Monday, 17th.
TO-DAY is the first day of school. These three months of vacation in thecountry have passed like a dream. This morning my mother conducted me tothe Baretti schoolhouse to have me enter for the third elementarycourse: I was thinking of the country and went unwillingly. All thestreets were swarming with boys: the two book-shops were thronged withfathers and mothers who were purchasing bags, portfolios, andcopy-books, and in front of the school so many people had collected,that the beadle and the policeman found it difficult to keep theentrance disencumbered. Near the door, I felt myself touched on theshoulder: it was my master of the second class, cheerful, as usual, andwith his red hair ruffled, and he said to me:--
"So we are separated forever, Enrico?"
I knew it perfectly well, yet these words pained me. We made our way inwith difficulty. Ladies, gentlemen, women of the people, workmen,officials, nuns, servants, all leading boys with one hand, and holdingthe promotion books in the other, filled the anteroom and the stairs,making such a buzzing, that it seemed as though one were entering atheatre. I beheld again with pleasure that large room on the groundfloor, with the doors leading to the seven classes, where I had passednearly every day for three years. There was a throng; the teachers weregoing and coming. My schoolmistress of the first upper class greeted mefrom the door of the class-room, and said:--
"Enrico, you are going to the floor above this year. I shall never seeyou pass by any more!" and she gazed sadly at me. The director wassurrounded by women in distress because there was no room for theirsons, and it struck me that his beard was a little whiter than it hadbeen last year. I found the boys had grown taller and stouter. On theground floor, where the divisions had already been made, there werelittle children of the first and lowest section, who did not want toenter the class-rooms, and who resisted like donkeys: it was necessaryto drag them in by force, and some escaped from the benches; others,when they saw their parents depart, began to cry, and the parents had togo back and comfort and reprimand them, and the teachers were indespair.
My little brother was placed in the class of Mistress Delcati: I was putwith Master Perboni, up stairs on the first floor. At ten o'clock wewere all in our classes: fifty-four of us; only fifteen or sixteen of mycompanions of the second class, among them, Derossi, the one who alwaysgets the first prize. The school seemed to me so small and gloomy when Ithought of the woods and the mountains where I had passed the summer! Ithought again, too, of my master in the second class, who was so good,and who always smiled at us, and was so small that he seemed to be oneof us, and I grieved that I should no longer see him there, with histumbled red hair. Our teacher is tall; he has no beard; his hair is grayand long; and he has a perpendicular wrinkle on his forehead: he has abig voice, and he looks at us fixedly, one after the other, as though hewere reading our inmost thoughts; and he never smiles. I said to myself:"This is my first day. There are nine months more. What toil, whatmonthly examinations, what fatigue!" I really needed to see my motherwhen I came out, and I ran to kiss her hand. She said to me:--
"Courage, Enrico! we will study together." And I returned home content.But I no longer have my master, with his kind, merry smile, and schooldoes not seem pleasant to me as it did before.
OUR MASTER.
Tuesday, 18th.
My new teacher pleases me also, since this morning. While we were comingin, and when he was already seated at his post, some one of his scholarsof last year every now and then peeped in at the door to salute him;they would present themselves and greet him:--
"Good morning, Signor Teacher!" "Good morning, Signor Perboni!" Someentered, touched his hand, and ran away. It was evident that they likedhim, and would have liked to return to him. He responded, "Goodmorning," and shook the hands which were extended to him, but he lookedat no one; at every greeting his smile remained serious, with thatperpendicular wrinkle on his brow, with his face turned towards thewindow, and staring at the roof of the house opposite; and instead ofbeing cheered by these greetings, he seemed to suffer from them. Then hesurveyed us attentively, one after the other. While he was dictating, hedescended and walked among the benches, and, catching sight of a boywhose face was all red with little pimples, he stopped dictating, tookthe lad's face between his hands and examined it; then he asked him whatwas the matter with him, and laid his hand on his forehead, to feel ifit was hot. Meanwhile, a boy behind him got up on the bench, and beganto play the marionette. The teacher turned round suddenly; the boyresumed his seat at one dash, and remained there, with head hanging, inexpectation of being punished. The master placed one hand on his headand said to him:--
"Don't do so again." Nothing more.
Then he returned to his table and finished the dictation. When he hadfinished dictating, he looked at us a moment in silence; then he said,very, very slowly, with his big but kind voice:--
"Listen. We have a year to pass together; let us see that we pass itwell. Study and be good. I have no family; you are my family. Last yearI had still a mother: she is dead. I am left alone. I have no one butyou in all the world; I have no other affection, no other thought thanyou: you must be my sons. I wish you well, and you must like me too. Ido not wish to be obliged to punish any one. Show me that you are boysof heart: our school shall be a family, and you shall be my consolationand my pride. I do not ask you to give me a promise on your word ofhonor; I am sure that in your hearts you have already answered me 'yes,'and I thank you."
At that moment the beadle entered to announce the close of school. Weall left our seats very, very quietly. The boy who had stood up on thebench approached the master, and said to him, in a trembling voice:--
"Forgive me, Signor Master."
The master kissed him on the brow, and said, "Go, my son."
AN ACCIDENT.
Friday, 21st.
The year has begun with an accident. On my way to school this morning Iwas repeating to my father these words of our teacher, when we perceivedthat the street was full of people, who were pressing close to the doorof the schoolhouse. Suddenly my father said: "An accident! The year isbeginning badly!"
We entered with great difficulty. The big hall was crowded with parentsand children, whom the teachers had not succeeded in drawing off intothe class-rooms, and all were turning towards the director's room, andwe heard the words, "Poor boy! Poor Robetti!"
Over their heads, at the end of the room, we could see the helmet of apoliceman, and the bald head of the director; then a gentleman with atall hat entered, and all said, "That is the doctor." My father inquiredof a master, "What has happened?"--"A wheel has passed over his foot,"replied the latter. "His foot has been crushed," said another. He was aboy belonging to the second class, who, on his way to school through theVia Dora Grossa, seeing a little child of the lowest class, who had runaway from its mother, fall down in the middle of the street, a few pacesfrom an omnibus which was bearing down upon it, had hastened boldlyforward, caught up the child, and placed it in safety; but, as he hadnot withdrawn his own foot quickly enough, the wheel of the omnibus hadpassed over it. He is the son of a captain of artillery. While we werebeing told this, a woman entered the big hall, like a lunatic, andforced her way through the crowd: she was Robetti's mother, who had beensent for. Another woman hastened towards her, and flung her arms abouther neck, with sobs: it was the mother of the baby who had been saved.Both flew into the room, and a desperate cry made itself heard: "Oh myGiulio! My child!"
At that moment a carriage stopped before the door, and a little laterthe director made his appearance, with the boy in his arms; the latterleaned his head on his shoulder, with pallid face and closed eyes. Everyone stood very still; the sobs of the mother were audible. The directorpaused a moment, quite pale, and raised the boy up a little in his arms,in order to show him to the people. And then the masters, mistresses,parents, and boys all murmured together: "Bravo, Robetti! Bravo, poorchild!" and they threw kisses to him
; the mistresses and boys who werenear him kissed his hands and his arms. He opened his eyes and said, "Myportfolio!" The mother of the little boy whom he had saved showed it tohim and said, amid her tears, "I will carry it for you, my dear littleangel; I will carry it for you." And in the meantime, the mother of thewounded boy smiled, as she covered her face with her hands. They wentout, placed the lad comfortably in the carriage, and the carriage droveaway. Then we all entered school in silence.
THE CALABRIAN BOY.
Saturday, 22d.
Yesterday afternoon, while the master was telling us the news of poorRobetti, who will have to go on crutches, the director entered with anew pupil, a lad with a very brown face, black hair, large black eyes,and thick eyebrows which met on his forehead: he was dressed entirely indark clothes, with a black morocco belt round his waist. The directorwent away, after speaking a few words in the master's ear, leavingbeside the latter the boy, who glanced about with his big black eyes asthough frightened. The master took him by the hand, and said to theclass: "You ought to be glad. To-day there enters our school a littleItalian born in Reggio, in Calabria, more than five hundred miles fromhere. Love your brother who has come from so far away. He was born in aglorious land, which has given illustrious men to Italy, and which nowfurnishes her with stout laborers and brave soldiers; in one of the mostbeautiful lands of our country, where there are great forests, and greatmountains, inhabited by people full of talent and courage. Treat himwell, so that he shall not perceive that he is far away from the city inwhich he was born; make him see that an Italian boy, in whatever Italianschool he sets his foot, will find brothers there." So saying, he roseand pointed out on the wall map of Italy the spot where lay Reggio, inCalabria. Then he called loudly:--
"Ernesto Derossi!"--the boy who always has the first prize. Derossirose.
"Come here," said the master. Derossi left his bench and stepped up tothe little table, facing the Calabrian.
"As the head boy in the school," said the master to him, "bestow theembrace of welcome on this new companion, in the name of the wholeclass--the embrace of the sons of Piedmont to the son of Calabria."
Derossi embraced the Calabrian, saying in his clear voice, "Welcome!"and the other kissed him impetuously on the cheeks. All clapped theirhands. "Silence!" cried the master; "don't clap your hands in school!"But it was evident that he was pleased. And the Calabrian was pleasedalso. The master assigned him a place, and accompanied him to the bench.Then he said again:--
"Bear well in mind what I have said to you. In order that this casemight occur, that a Calabrian boy should be as though in his own houseat Turin, and that a boy from Turin should be at home in Calabria, ourcountry fought for fifty years, and thirty thousand Italians died. Youmust all respect and love each other; but any one of you who should giveoffence to this comrade, because he was not born in our province, wouldrender himself unworthy of ever again raising his eyes from the earthwhen he passes the tricolored flag."
Hardly was the Calabrian seated in his place, when his neighborspresented him with pens and a _print_; and another boy, from the lastbench, sent him a Swiss postage-stamp.
MY COMRADES.
Tuesday, 25th.
The boy who sent the postage-stamp to the Calabrian is the one whopleases me best of all. His name is Garrone: he is the biggest boy inthe class: he is about fourteen years old; his head is large, hisshoulders broad; he is good, as one can see when he smiles; but it seemsas though he always thought like a man. I already know many of mycomrades. Another one pleases me, too, by the name of Coretti, and hewears chocolate-colored trousers and a catskin cap: he is always jolly;he is the son of a huckster of wood, who was a soldier in the war of1866, in the squadron of Prince Umberto, and they say that he has threemedals. There is little Nelli, a poor hunchback, a weak boy, with a thinface. There is one who is very well dressed, who always wears fineFlorentine plush, and is named Votini. On the bench in front of me thereis a boy who is called "the little mason" because his father is a mason:his face is as round as an apple, with a nose like a small ball; hepossesses a special talent: he knows how to make _a hare's face_, andthey all get him to make a hare's face, and then they laugh. He wears alittle ragged cap, which he carries rolled up in his pocket like ahandkerchief. Beside the little mason there sits Garoffi, a long, thin,silly fellow, with a nose and beak of a screech owl, and very smalleyes, who is always trafficking in little pens and images andmatch-boxes, and who writes the lesson on his nails, in order that hemay read it on the sly. Then there is a young gentleman, Carlo Nobis,who seems very haughty; and he is between two boys who are sympatheticto me,--the son of a blacksmith-ironmonger, clad in a jacket whichreaches to his knees, who is pale, as though from illness, who alwayshas a frightened air, and who never laughs; and one with red hair, whohas a useless arm, and wears it suspended from his neck; his father hasgone away to America, and his mother goes about peddling pot-herbs. Andthere is another curious type,--my neighbor on the left,--Stardi--smalland thickset, with no neck,--a gruff fellow, who speaks to no one, andseems not to understand much, but stands attending to the master withoutwinking, his brow corrugated with wrinkles, and his teeth clenched; andif he is questioned when the master is speaking, he makes no reply thefirst and second times, and the third time he gives a kick: and besidehim there is a bold, cunning face, belonging to a boy named Franti, whohas already been expelled from another district. There are, in addition,two brothers who are dressed exactly alike, who resemble each other to ahair, and both of whom wear caps of Calabrian cut, with a peasant'splume. But handsomer than all the rest, the one who has the most talent,who will surely be the head this year also, is Derossi; and the master,who has already perceived this, always questions him. But I likePrecossi, the son of the blacksmith-ironmonger, the one with the longjacket, who seems sickly. They say that his father beats him; he is verytimid, and every time that he addresses or touches any one, he says,"Excuse me," and gazes at them with his kind, sad eyes. But Garrone isthe biggest and the nicest.
A GENEROUS DEED.
Wednesday, 26th.
It was this very morning that Garrone let us know what he is like. WhenI entered the school a little late, because the mistress of the upperfirst had stopped me to inquire at what hour she could find me at home,the master had not yet arrived, and three or four boys were tormentingpoor Crossi, the one with the red hair, who has a dead arm, and whosemother sells vegetables. They were poking him with rulers, hitting himin the face with chestnut shells, and were making him out to be acripple and a monster, by mimicking him, with his arm hanging from hisneck. And he, alone on the end of the bench, and quite pale, began to beaffected by it, gazing now at one and now at another with beseechingeyes, that they might leave him in peace. But the others mocked himworse than ever, and he began to tremble and to turn crimson with rage.All at once, Franti, the boy with the repulsive face, sprang upon abench, and pretending that he was carrying a basket on each arm, he apedthe mother of Crossi, when she used to come to wait for her son at thedoor; for she is ill now. Many began to laugh loudly. Then Crossi losthis head, and seizing an inkstand, he hurled it at the other's head withall his strength; but Franti dodged, and the inkstand struck the master,who entered at the moment, full in the breast.
All flew to their places, and became silent with terror.
The master, quite pale, went to his table, and said in a constrainedvoice:--
"Who did it?"
No one replied.
The master cried out once more, raising his voice still louder, "Who isit?"
Then Garrone, moved to pity for poor Crossi, rose abruptly and said,resolutely, "It was I."
The master looked at him, looked at the stupefied scholars; then said ina tranquil voice, "It was not you."
And, after a moment: "The culprit shall not be punished. Let him rise!"
Crossi rose and said, weeping, "They were striking me and insulting me,and I lost my head, and threw it."
"Sit down," said the master. "
Let those who provoked him rise."
Four rose, and hung their heads.
"You," said the master, "have insulted a companion who had given you noprovocation; you have scoffed at an unfortunate lad, you have struck aweak person who could not defend himself. You have committed one of thebasest, the most shameful acts with which a human creature can stainhimself. Cowards!"
Having said this, he came down among the benches, put his hand underGarrone's chin, as the latter stood with drooping head, and having madehim raise it, he looked him straight in the eye, and said to him, "Youare a noble soul."
Garrone profited by the occasion to murmur some words, I know not what,in the ear of the master; and he, turning towards the four culprits,said, abruptly, "I forgive you."
MY SCHOOLMISTRESS OF THE UPPER FIRST.
Thursday, 27th.
My schoolmistress has kept her promise which she made, and came to-dayjust as I was on the point of going out with my mother to carry somelinen to a poor woman recommended by the _Gazette_. It was a year sinceI had seen her in our house. We all made a great deal of her. She isjust the same as ever, a little thing, with a green veil wound about herbonnet, carelessly dressed, and with untidy hair, because she has nottime to keep herself nice; but with a little less color than last year,with some white hairs, and a constant cough. My mother said to her:--
"And your health, my dear mistress? You do not take sufficient care ofyourself!"
"It does not matter," the other replied, with her smile, at oncecheerful and melancholy.
"You speak too loud," my mother added; "you exert yourself too much withyour boys."
That is true; her voice is always to be heard; I remember how it waswhen I went to school to her; she talked and talked all the time, sothat the boys might not divert their attention, and she did not remainseated a moment. I felt quite sure that she would come, because shenever forgets her pupils; she remembers their names for years; on thedays of the monthly examination, she runs to ask the director what marksthey have won; she waits for them at the entrance, and makes them showher their compositions, in order that she may see what progress theyhave made; and many still come from the gymnasium to see her, whoalready wear long trousers and a watch. To-day she had come back in agreat state of excitement, from the picture-gallery, whither she hadtaken her boys, just as she had conducted them all to a museum everyThursday in years gone by, and explained everything to them. The poormistress has grown still thinner than of old. But she is always brisk,and always becomes animated when she speaks of her school. She wanted tohave a peep at the bed on which she had seen me lying very ill two yearsago, and which is now occupied by my brother; she gazed at it for awhile, and could not speak. She was obliged to go away soon to visit aboy belonging to her class, the son of a saddler, who is ill with themeasles; and she had besides a package of sheets to correct, a wholeevening's work, and she has still a private lesson in arithmetic to giveto the mistress of a shop before nightfall.
"Well, Enrico," she said to me as she was going, "are you still fond ofyour schoolmistress, now that you solve difficult problems and writelong compositions?" She kissed me, and called up once more from the footof the stairs: "You are not to forget me, you know, Enrico!" Oh, my kindteacher, never, never will I forget thee! Even when I grow up I willremember thee and will go to seek thee among thy boys; and every timethat I pass near a school and hear the voice of a schoolmistress, Ishall think that I hear thy voice, and I shall recall the two years thatI passed in thy school, where I learned so many things, where I so oftensaw thee ill and weary, but always earnest, always indulgent, in despairwhen any one acquired a bad trick in the writing-fingers, trembling whenthe examiners interrogated us, happy when we made a good appearance,always kind and loving as a mother. Never, never shall I forget thee, myteacher!
IN AN ATTIC.
Friday, 28th.
Yesterday afternoon I went with my mother and my sister Sylvia, to carrythe linen to the poor woman recommended by the newspaper: I carried thebundle; Sylvia had the paper with the initials of the name and theaddress. We climbed to the very roof of a tall house, to a long corridorwith many doors. My mother knocked at the last; it was opened by a womanwho was still young, blond and thin, and it instantly struck me that Ihad seen her many times before, with that very same blue kerchief thatshe wore on her head.
"Are you the person of whom the newspaper says so and so?" asked mymother.
"Yes, signora, I am."
"Well, we have brought you a little linen." Then the woman began tothank us and bless us, and could not make enough of it. Meanwhile Iespied in one corner of the bare, dark room, a boy kneeling in front ofa chair, with his back turned towards us, who appeared to be writing;and he really was writing, with his paper on the chair and his inkstandon the floor. How did he manage to write thus in the dark? While I wassaying this to myself, I suddenly recognized the red hair and the coarsejacket of Crossi, the son of the vegetable-pedler, the boy with theuseless arm. I told my mother softly, while the woman was putting awaythe things.
"Hush!" replied my mother; "perhaps he will feel ashamed to see yougiving alms to his mother: don't speak to him."
But at that moment Crossi turned round; I was embarrassed; he smiled,and then my mother gave me a push, so that I should run to him andembrace him. I did embrace him: he rose and took me by the hand.
"Here I am," his mother was saying in the meantime to my mother, "alonewith this boy, my husband in America these seven years, and I sick inaddition, so that I can no longer make my rounds with my vegetables, andearn a few cents. We have not even a table left for my poor Luigino todo his work on. When there was a bench down at the door, he could, atleast, write on the bench; but that has been taken away. He has not evena little light so that he can study without ruining his eyes. And it isa mercy that I can send him to school, since the city provides him withbooks and copy-books. Poor Luigino, who would be so glad to study!Unhappy woman, that I am!"
My mother gave her all that she had in her purse, kissed the boy, andalmost wept as we went out. And she had good cause to say to me: "Lookat that poor boy; see how he is forced to work, when you have everycomfort, and yet study seems hard to you! Ah! Enrico, there is moremerit in the work which he does in one day, than in your work for ayear. It is to such that the first prizes should be given!"
THE SCHOOL.
Friday, 28th.
Yes, study comes hard to you, my dear Enrico, as your mother says: I do not yet see you set out for school with that resolute mind and that smiling face which I should like. You are still intractable. But listen; reflect a little! What a miserable, despicable thing your day would be if you did not go to school! At the end of a week you would beg with clasped hands that you might return there, for you would be eaten up with weariness and shame; disgusted with your sports and with your existence. Everybody, everybody studies now, my child. Think of the workmen who go to school in the evening after having toiled all the day; think of the women, of the girls of the people, who go to school on Sunday, after having worked all the week; of the soldiers who turn to their books and copy-books when they return exhausted from their drill! Think of the dumb and of the boys who are blind, but who study, nevertheless; and last of all, think of the prisoners, who also learn to read and write. Reflect in the morning, when you set out, that at that very moment, in your own city, thirty thousand other boys are going like yourself, to shut themselves up in a room for three hours and study. Think of the innumerable boys who, at nearly this precise hour, are going to school in all countries. Behold them with your imagination, going, going, through the lanes of quiet villages; through the streets of the noisy towns, along the shores of rivers and lakes; here beneath a burning sun; there amid fogs, in boats, in countries which are intersected with canals; on horseback on the far-reaching plains; in sledges over the snow; through valleys and over hills; across forests and torre
nts, over the solitary paths of mountains; alone, in couples, in groups, in long files, all with their books under their arms, clad in a thousand ways, speaking a thousand tongues, from the most remote schools in Russia. Almost lost in the ice to the furthermost schools of Arabia, shaded by palm-trees, millions and millions, all going to learn the same things, in a hundred varied forms. Imagine this vast, vast throng of boys of a hundred races, this immense movement of which you form a part, and think, if this movement were to cease, humanity would fall back into barbarism; this movement is the progress, the hope, the glory of the world. Courage, then, little soldier of the immense army. Your books are your arms, your class is your squadron, the field of battle is the whole earth, and the victory is human civilization. Be not a cowardly soldier, my Enrico.
THY FATHER.
THE LITTLE PATRIOT OF PADUA.
(_The Monthly Story._)
Saturday, 29th.
I will not be a _cowardly soldier_, no; but I should be much morewilling to go to school if the master would tell us a story every day,like the one he told us this morning. "Every month," said he, "I shalltell you one; I shall give it to you in writing, and it will always bethe tale of a fine and noble deed performed by a boy. This one iscalled _The Little Patriot of Padua_. Here it is. A French steamer setout from Barcelona, a city in Spain, for Genoa; there were on boardFrenchmen, Italians, Spaniards, and Swiss. Among the rest was a lad ofeleven, poorly clad, and alone, who always held himself aloof, like awild animal, and stared at all with gloomy eyes. He had good reasons forlooking at every one with forbidding eyes. Two years previous to thistime his parents, peasants in the neighborhood of Padua, had sold him toa company of mountebanks, who, after they had taught him how to performtricks, by dint of blows and kicks and starving, had carried him allover France and Spain, beating him continually and never giving himenough to eat. On his arrival in Barcelona, being no longer able toendure ill treatment and hunger, and being reduced to a pitiablecondition, he had fled from his slave-master and had betaken himself forprotection to the Italian consul, who, moved with compassion, had placedhim on board of this steamer, and had given him a letter to thetreasurer of Genoa, who was to send the boy back to his parents--to theparents who had sold him like a beast. The poor lad was lacerated andweak. He had been assigned to the second-class cabin. Every one staredat him; some questioned him, but he made no reply, and seemed to hateand despise every one, to such an extent had privation and afflictionsaddened and irritated him. Nevertheless, three travellers, by dint ofpersisting in their questions, succeeded in making him unloose histongue; and in a few rough words, a mixture of Venetian, French, andSpanish, he related his story. These three travellers were not Italians,but they understood him; and partly out of compassion, partly becausethey were excited with wine, they gave him soldi, jesting with him andurging him on to tell them other things; and as several ladies enteredthe saloon at the moment, they gave him some more money for the purposeof making a show, and cried: 'Take this! Take this, too!' as they madethe money rattle on the table.
"The boy pocketed it all, thanking them in a low voice, with his surlymien, but with a look that was for the first time smiling andaffectionate. Then he climbed into his berth, drew the curtain, and layquiet, thinking over his affairs. With this money he would be able topurchase some good food on board, after having suffered for lack ofbread for two years; he could buy a jacket as soon as he landed inGenoa, after having gone about clad in rags for two years; and he couldalso, by carrying it home, insure for himself from his father and mothera more humane reception than would have fallen to his lot if he hadarrived with empty pockets. This money was a little fortune for him; andhe was taking comfort out of this thought behind the curtain of hisberth, while the three travellers chatted away, as they sat round thedining-table in the second-class saloon. They were drinking anddiscussing their travels and the countries which they had seen; and fromone topic to another they began to discuss Italy. One of them began tocomplain of the inns, another of the railways, and then, growing warmer,they all began to speak evil of everything. One would have preferred atrip in Lapland; another declared that he had found nothing butswindlers and brigands in Italy; the third said that Italian officialsdo not know how to read.
"'It's an ignorant nation,' repeated the first. 'A filthy nation,' addedthe second. 'Ro--' exclaimed the third, meaning to say 'robbers'; buthe was not allowed to finish the word: a tempest of soldi and half-liredescended upon their heads and shoulders, and leaped upon the table andthe floor with a demoniacal noise. All three sprang up in a rage, lookedup, and received another handful of coppers in their faces.
"'Take back your soldi!' said the lad, disdainfully, thrusting his headbetween the curtains of his berth; 'I do not accept alms from those whoinsult my country.'"
THE CHIMNEY-SWEEP.
November 1st.
Yesterday afternoon I went to the girls' school building, near ours, togive the story of the boy from Padua to Silvia's teacher, who wished toread it. There are seven hundred girls there. Just as I arrived, theybegan to come out, all greatly rejoiced at the holiday of All Saints andAll Souls; and here is a beautiful thing that I saw: Opposite the doorof the school, on the other side of the street, stood a very smallchimney-sweep, his face entirely black, with his sack and scraper, withone arm resting against the wall, and his head supported on his arm,weeping copiously and sobbing. Two or three of the girls of the secondgrade approached him and said, "What is the matter, that you weep likethis?" But he made no reply, and went on crying.
"Come, tell us what is the matter with you and why you are crying," thegirls repeated. And then he raised his face from his arm,--a babyface,--and said through his tears that he had been to several houses tosweep the chimneys, and had earned thirty soldi, and that he had lostthem, that they had slipped through a hole in his pocket,--and he showedthe hole,--and he did not dare to return home without the money.
"The master will beat me," he said, sobbing; and again dropped his headupon his arm, like one in despair. The children stood and stared at himvery seriously. In the meantime, other girls, large and small, poorgirls and girls of the upper classes, with their portfolios under theirarms, had come up; and one large girl, who had a blue feather in herhat, pulled two soldi from her pocket, and said:--
"I have only two soldi; let us make a collection."
"I have two soldi, also," said another girl, dressed in red; "we shallcertainly find thirty soldi among the whole of us"; and then they beganto call out:--
"Amalia! Luigia! Annina!--A soldo. Who has any soldi? Bring your soldihere!"
Several had soldi to buy flowers or copy-books, and they brought them;some of the smaller girls gave centesimi; the one with the blue feathercollected all, and counted them in a loud voice:--
"Eight, ten, fifteen!" But more was needed. Then one larger than any ofthem, who seemed to be an assistant mistress, made her appearance, andgave half a lira; and all made much of her. Five soldi were stilllacking.
"The girls of the fourth class are coming; they will have it," said onegirl. The members of the fourth class came, and the soldi showered down.All hurried forward eagerly; and it was beautiful to see that poorchimney-sweep in the midst of all those many-colored dresses, of allthat whirl of feathers, ribbons, and curls. The thirty soldi werealready obtained, and more kept pouring in; and the very smallest whohad no money made their way among the big girls, and offered theirbunches of flowers, for the sake of giving something. All at once theportress made her appearance, screaming:--
"The Signora Directress!" The girls made their escape in all directions,like a flock of sparrows; and then the little chimney-sweep was visible,alone, in the middle of the street, wiping his eyes in perfect content,with his hands full of money, and the button-holes of his jacket, hispockets, his hat, were full of flowers; and there were even flowers onthe ground at his feet.
THE DAY OF THE DEAD.
(_All-Souls-Day
._)
November 2d.
This day is consecrated to the commemoration of the dead. Do you know, Enrico, that all you boys should, on this day, devote a thought to those who are dead? To those who have died for you,--for boys and little children. How many have died, and how many are dying continually! Have you ever reflected how many fathers have worn out their lives in toil? how many mothers have descended to the grave before their time, exhausted by the privations to which they have condemned themselves for the sake of sustaining their children? Do you know how many men have planted a knife in their hearts in despair at beholding their children in misery? how many women have drowned themselves or have died of sorrow, or have gone mad, through having lost a child? Think of all these dead on this day, Enrico. Think of how many schoolmistresses have died young, have pined away through the fatigues of the school, through love of the children, from whom they had not the heart to tear themselves away; think of the doctors who have perished of contagious diseases, having courageously sacrificed themselves to cure the children; think of all those who in shipwrecks, in conflagrations, in famines, in moments of supreme danger, have yielded to infancy the last morsel of bread, the last place of safety, the last rope of escape from the flames, to expire content with their sacrifice, since they preserved the life of a little innocent. Such dead as these are innumerable, Enrico; every graveyard contains hundreds of these sainted beings, who, if they could rise for a moment from their graves, would cry the name of a child to whom they sacrificed the pleasures of youth, the peace of old age, their affections, their intelligence, their life: wives of twenty, men in the flower of their strength, octogenarians, youths,--heroic and obscure martyrs of infancy,--so grand and so noble, that the earth does not produce as many flowers as should strew their graves. To such a degree are ye loved, O children! Think to-day on those dead with gratitude, and you will be kinder and more affectionate to all those who love you, and who toil for you, my dear, fortunate son, who, on the day of the dead, have, as yet, no one to grieve for.
THY MOTHER.
THE CHARCOAL MAN AND THE GENTLEMAN.--Page 27.]