PICCOLA.
Suggested by One of Mrs. Celia Thaxter's Poems.
"Story-telling is a real strengthening spirit-bath."--Froebel.
Piccola lived in Italy, where the oranges grow, and where all the yearthe sun shines warm and bright. I suppose you think Piccola a verystrange name for a little girl; but in her country it was not strange atall, and her mother thought it the sweetest name a little girl ever had.
Piccola had no kind father, no big brother or sister, and no sweet babyto play with and to love. She and her mother lived all alone in an oldstone house that looked on a dark, narrow street. They were very poor,and the mother was away from home almost every day, washing clothes andscrubbing floors, and working hard to earn money for her little girl andherself. So you see Piccola was alone a great deal of the time; and ifshe had not been a very happy, contented little child, I hardly knowwhat she would have done. She had no playthings except a heap of stonesin the back yard that she used for building houses, and a very old, veryragged doll that her mother had found in the street one day.
But there was a small round hole in the stone wall at the back ofher yard, and her greatest pleasure was to look through that into herneighbor's garden. When she stood on a stone, and put her eyes close tothe hole, she could see the green grass in the garden, smell the sweetflowers, and even hear the water plashing into the fountain. She hadnever seen any one walking in the garden, for it belonged to an oldgentleman who did not care about grass and flowers.
One day in the autumn her mother told her that the old gentleman hadgone away, and had rented his house to a family of little Americanchildren, who had come with their sick mother to spend the winterin Italy. After this, Piccola was never lonely, for all day long thechildren ran and played and danced and sang in the garden. It wasseveral weeks before they saw her at all, and I am not sure they wouldever have done so but that one day the kitten ran away, and in chasingher they came close to the wall, and saw Piccola's black eyes lookingthrough the hole in the stones. They were a little frightened at first,and did not speak to her; but the next day she was there again, andRose, the oldest girl, went up to the wall and talked to her a littlewhile. When the children found that she had no one to play with and wasvery lonely, they talked to her every day, and often brought her fruitsand candies, and passed them through the hole in the wall.
One day they even pushed the kitten through; but the hole was hardlylarge enough for her, and she mewed and scratched, and was very muchfrightened. After that the little boy said he should ask his father ifthe hole might not be made larger, and then Piccola could come in andplay with them. The father had found out that Piccola's mother was agood woman, and that the little girl herself was sweet and kind, so thathe was very glad to have some of the stones broken away, and an openingmade for Piccola to come in.
How excited she was, and how glad the children were when she firststepped into the garden! She wore her best dress, a long bright-coloredwoolen skirt and a white waist. Round her neck was a string of beads,and on her feet were little wooden shoes. It would seem very strange tous--would it not?--to wear wooden shoes; but Piccola and her motherhad never worn anything else, and never had any money to buy stockings.Piccola almost always ran about barefooted, like the kittens and thechickens and the little ducks. What a good time they had that day, andhow glad Piccola's mother was that her little girl could have such apleasant, safe place to play in, while she was away at work!
By and by December came, and the little Americans began to talk aboutChristmas. One day, when Piccola's curly head and bright eyes camepeeping through the hole in the wall, they ran to her and helped herin; and as they did so, they all asked her at once what she thought shewould have for a Christmas present. "A Christmas present!" said Piccola."Why, what is that?"
All the children looked surprised at this, and Rose said, rathergravely, "Dear Piccola, don't you know what Christmas is?"
Oh, yes, Piccola knew it was the happy day when the baby Christ wasborn, and she had been to church on that day, and heard the beautifulsinging, and had seen a picture of the Babe lying in the manger, withcattle and sheep sleeping round about. Oh, yes, she knew all that verywell, but what was a Christmas present?
Then the children began to laugh, and to answer her all together. Therewas such a clatter of tongues that she could hear only a few words nowand then, such as "chimney," "Santa Claus," "stockings," "reindeer,""Christmas Eve," "candies and toys." Piccola put her hands over herears, and said, "Oh, I can't understand one word. You tell me, Rose."Then Rose told her all about jolly old Santa Claus, with his red cheeksand white beard and fur coat, and about his reindeer and sleigh full oftoys. "Every Christmas Eve," said Rose, "he comes down the chimney, andfills the stockings of all the good children; so, Piccola, you hang upyour stocking, and who knows what a beautiful Christmas present youwill find when morning comes!" Of course Piccola thought this was adelightful plan, and was very pleased to hear about it. Then all thechildren told her of every Christmas Eve they could remember, and ofthe presents they had had; so that she went home thinking of nothing butdolls, and hoops, and balls, and ribbons, and marbles, and wagons, andkites. She told her mother about Santa Claus, and her mother seemed tothink that perhaps he did not know there was any little girl in thathouse, and very likely he would not come at all. But Piccola felt verysure Santa Claus would remember her, for her little friends had promisedto send a letter up the chimney to remind him.
Christmas Eve came at last. Piccola's mother hurried home from herwork; they had their little supper of soup and bread, and soon it wasbedtime,--time to get ready for Santa Claus. But oh! Piccola rememberedthen for the first time that the children had told her she must hang upher stocking, and she hadn't any, and neither had her mother.
How sad, how sad it was! Now Santa Claus would come, and perhaps beangry because he couldn't find any place to put the present. The poorlittle girl stood by the fireplace; and the big tears began to run downher cheeks. Just then her mother called to her, "Hurry, Piccola; cometo bed." What should she do? But she stopped crying, and tried to think;and in a moment she remembered her wooden shoes, and ran off to get oneof them. She put it close to the chimney, and said to herself, "SurelySanta Claus will know what it's there for. He will know I haven't anystockings, so I gave him the shoe instead."
Then she went off happily to her bed, and was asleep almost as soon asshe had nestled close to her mother's side.
The sun had only just begun to shine, next morning, when Piccola awoke.With one jump she was out on the floor and running toward the chimney.The wooden shoe was lying where she had left it, but you could never,never guess what was in it.
{Illustration: See the present Santa Claus brought me}
Piccola had not meant to wake her mother, but this surprise was morethan any little girl could bear and yet be quiet; so she danced to thebed with the shoe in her hand, calling, "Mother, mother! look, look! seethe present Santa Claus brought me!"
Her mother raised her head and looked into the shoe. "Why, Piccola," shesaid, "a little chimney swallow nestling in your shoe? What a good SantaClaus to bring you a bird!"
"Good Santa Claus, dear Santa Claus!" cried Piccola; and she kissed hermother and kissed the bird and kissed the shoe, and even threw kisses upthe chimney, she was so happy.
When the birdling was taken out of the shoe, they found that he did nottry to fly, only to hop about the room; and as they looked closer, theycould see that one of his wings was hurt a little. But the mother boundit up carefully, so that it did not seem to pain him, and he was sogentle that he took a drink of water from a cup, and even ate crumbs andseeds from Piccola's hand. She was a proud little girl when she tookher Christmas present to show the children in the garden. They had hada great many gifts,--dolls that could say "mamma," bright picture-books,trains of cars, toy pianos; but not one of their playthings was alive,like Piccola's birdling. They were as pleased as she, and Rose huntedabout the house till she found a large wicker cage that belong
ed to ablackbird she once had. She gave the cage to Piccola, and the swallowseemed to make himself quite at home in it at once, and sat on the perchwinking his bright eyes at the children. Rose had saved a bag of candiesfor Piccola, and when she went home at last, with the cage and her dearswallow safely inside it, I am sure there was not a happier little girlin the whole country of Italy.