Then it was Garrone’s turn, and up he went, chewing away at his bread as though it were nothing out of the common; and I believe that he would have been capable of carrying one of us up on his shoulders, for he is as muscular and strong as a young bull.

After Garrone came Nelli. No sooner did the boys see him grasp the bars with those long, thin hands of his, than many of them began to laugh and to sing; but Garrone crossed his big arms on his breast, and darted round a glance which was so expressive, which so clearly said that he did not mind dealing out half a dozen punches, even in the master’s presence, that they all ceased laughing on the instant. Nelli began to climb. He tried hard, poor little fellow; his face grew purple, he breathed with difficulty, and the perspiration poured from his brow. The master said, “Come down!” But he would not. He strove and persisted. I expected every moment to see him fall headlong, half dead. Poor Nelli! I thought, what if I had been like him, and my mother had seen me! How she would have suffered, poor mother! And as I thought of that I felt so tenderly towards Nelli that I could have given, I know not what, to be able, for the sake of having him climb those bars, to give him a push from below without being seen.

Meanwhile Garrone, Derossi, and Coretti were saying: “Up with you, Nelli, up with you!” “Try—one effort more—courage!” And Nelli made one more violent effort, uttering a groan as he did so, and found himself within two spans of the plank.

“Bravo!” shouted the others. “Courage—one dash more!” and behold Nelli clinging to the plank.

All clapped their hands. “Bravo!” said the master. “But that will do now. Come down.”

But Nelli wished to ascend to the top like the rest, and after a little exertion he succeeded in getting his elbows on the plank, then his knees, then his feet; at last he stood upright, panting and smiling, and gazed at us.

We began to clap again, and then he looked into the street. I turned in that direction, and through the plants which cover the iron railing of the garden I caught sight of his mother, passing along the sidewalk without daring to look. Nelli descended, and we all made much of him. He was excited and rosy, his eyes sparkled, and he no longer seemed like the same boy.

Then, at the close of school, when his mother came to meet him, and inquired with some anxiety, as she embraced him, “Well, my poor son, how did it go? how did it go?” all his comrades replied, in concert, “He did well—he climbed like the rest of us—he’s strong, you know—he’s active—he does exactly like the others.”

And then the joy of that woman was a sight to see. She tried to thank us, and could not; she shook hands with three or four, bestowed a caress on Garrone, and carried off her son; and we watched them for a while, walking in haste, and talking and gesticulating, both perfectly happy, as though no one were looking at them.

---

MY FATHER’S TEACHER.

Tuesday, 11th.

What a beautiful excursion I took yesterday with my father! This is the way it came about.

Day before yesterday, at dinner, as my father was reading the newspaper, he suddenly uttered an exclamation of astonishment. Then he said:—

“And I thought him dead twenty years ago! Do you know that my old first elementary teacher, Vincenzo Crosetti, is eighty-four years old? I see here that the minister has conferred on him the medal of merit for sixty years of teaching. Six-ty ye-ars, you understand! And it is only two years since he stopped teaching school. Poor Crosetti! He lives an hour’s journey from here by rail, at Condove, in the country of our old gardener’s wife, of the town of Chieri.” And he added, “Enrico, we will go and see him.”

And the whole evening he talked of nothing but him. The name of his primary teacher recalled to his mind a thousand things which had happened when he was a boy, his early companions, his dead mother. “Crosetti!” he exclaimed. “He was forty when I was with him. I seem to see him now. He was a small man, somewhat bent even then, with bright eyes, and always cleanly shaved. Severe, but in a good way; for he loved us like a father, and forgave us more than one offence. He had risen from the condition of a peasant by dint of study and privations. He was a fine man. My mother was attached to him, and my father treated him like a friend. How comes it that he has gone to end his days at Condove, near Turin? He certainly will not recognize me. Never mind; I shall recognize him. Forty-four years have elapsed,—forty-four years, Enrico! and we will go to see him to-morrow.”

And yesterday morning, at nine o’clock, we were at the Susa railway station. I should have liked to have Garrone come too; but he could not, because his mother is ill.

It was a beautiful spring day. The train ran through green fields and hedgerows in blossom, and the air we breathed was perfumed. My father was delighted, and every little while he would put his arm round my neck and talk to me like a friend, as he gazed out over the country.

“Poor Crosetti!” he said; “he was the first man, after my father, to love me and do me good. I have never forgotten certain of his good counsels, and also certain sharp reprimands which caused me to return home with a lump in my throat. His hands were large and stubby. I can see him now, as he used to enter the schoolroom, place his cane in a corner and hang his coat on the peg, always with the same gesture. And every day he was in the same humor,—always conscientious, full of good will, and attentive, as though each day he were teaching school for the first time. I remember him as well as though I heard him now when he called to me: ‘Bottini! eh, Bottini! The fore and middle fingers on that pen!’ He must have changed greatly in these four and forty years.”

As soon as we reached Condove, we went in search of our old gardener’s wife of Chieri, who keeps a stall in an alley. We found her with her boys: she made much of us and gave us news of her husband, who is soon to return from Greece, where he has been working these three years; and of her eldest daughter, who is in the Deaf-mute Institute in Turin. Then she pointed out to us the street which led to the teacher’s house,—for every one knows him.

We left the town, and turned into a steep lane flanked by blossoming hedges.

My father no longer talked, but appeared entirely absorbed in his reminiscences; and every now and then he smiled, and then shook his head.

Suddenly he halted and said: “Here he is. I will wager that this is he.” Down the lane towards us a little old man with a white beard and a large hat was descending, leaning on a cane. He dragged his feet along, and his hands trembled.

“It is he!” repeated my father, hastening his steps.

When we were close to him, we stopped. The old man stopped also and looked at my father. His face was still fresh colored, and his eyes were clear and vivacious.

“Are you,” asked my father, raising his hat, “Vincenzo Crosetti, the schoolmaster?”

The old man raised his hat also, and replied: “I am,” in a voice that was somewhat tremulous, but full.

“Well, then,” said my father, taking one of his hands, “permit one of your old scholars to shake your hand and to inquire how you are. I have come from Turin to see you.”

The old man stared at him in amazement. Then he said: “You do me too much honor. I do not know—When were you my scholar? Excuse me; your name, if you please.”

My father mentioned his name, Alberto Bottini, and the year in which he had attended school, and where, and he added: “It is natural that you should not remember me. But I recollect you so perfectly!”

The master bent his head and gazed at the ground in thought, and muttered my father’s name three or four times; the latter, meanwhile, observed him with intent and smiling eyes.

All at once the old man raised his face, with his eyes opened widely, and said slowly: “Alberto Bottini? the son of Bottini, the engineer? the one who lived in the Piazza della Consolata?”

“The same,” replied my father, extending his hands.

“Then,” said the old man, “permit me, my dear sir, permit me”; and advancing, he embraced my father: his white head hardly reached the latter’s shoulder. My father pressed his cheek to the other’s brow.

“Have the goodness to come with me,” said the teacher. And without speaking further he turned about and took the road to his dwelling.

In a few minutes we arrived at a garden plot in front of a tiny house with two doors, round one of which there was a fragment of whitewashed wall.

The teacher opened the second and ushered us into a room. There were four white walls: in one corner a cot bed with a blue and white checked coverlet; in another, a small table with a little library; four chairs, and one ancient geographical map nailed to the wall. A pleasant odor of apples was perceptible.

We seated ourselves, all three. My father and his teacher remained silent for several minutes.

“Bottini!” exclaimed the master at length, fixing his eyes on the brick floor where the sunlight formed a checker-board. “Oh! I remember well! Your mother was such a good woman! For a while, during your first year, you sat on a bench to the left near the window. Let us see whether I do not recall it. I can still see your curly head.” Then he thought for a while longer. “You were a lively lad, eh? Very. The second year you had an attack of croup. I remember when they brought you back to school, emaciated and wrapped up in a shawl. Forty years have elapsed since then, have they not? You are very kind to remember your poor teacher. And do you know, others of my old pupils have come hither in years gone by to seek me out: there was a colonel, and there were some priests, and several gentlemen.” He asked my father what his profession was. Then he said, “I am glad, heartily glad. I thank you. It is quite a while now since I have seen any one. I very much fear that you will be the last, my dear sir.”

“Don’t say that,” exclaimed my father. “You are well and still vigorous. You must not say that.”

“Eh, no!” replied the master; “do you see this trembling?” and he showed us his hands. “This is a bad sign. It seized on me three years ago, while I was still teaching school. At first I paid no attention to it; I thought it would pass off. But instead of that, it stayed and kept on increasing. A day came when I could no longer write. Ah! that day on which I, for the first time, made a blot on the copy-book of one of my scholars was a stab in the heart for me, my dear sir. I did drag on for a while longer; but I was at the end of my strength. After sixty years of teaching I was forced to bid farewell to my school, to my scholars, to work. And it was hard, you understand, hard. The last time that I gave a lesson, all the scholars accompanied me home, and made much of me; but I was sad; I understood that my life was finished. I had lost my wife the year before, and my only son. I had only two peasant grandchildren left. Now I am living on a pension of a few hundred lire. I no longer do anything; it seems to me as though the days would never come to an end. My only occupation, you see, is to turn over my old schoolbooks, my scholastic journals, and a few volumes that have been given to me. There they are,” he said, indicating his little library; “there are my reminiscences, my whole past; I have nothing else remaining to me in the world.”

Then in a tone that was suddenly joyous, “I want to give you a surprise, my dear Signor Bottini.”

He rose, and approaching his desk, he opened a long casket which contained numerous little parcels, all tied up with a slender cord, and on each was written a date in four figures.

After a little search, he opened one, turned over several papers, drew forth a yellowed sheet, and handed it to my father. It was some of his school work of forty years before.

At the top was written, Alberto Bottini, Dictation, April 3, 1838. My father instantly recognized his own large, schoolboy hand, and began to read it with a smile. But all at once his eyes grew moist. I rose and inquired the cause.

He threw one arm around my body, and pressing me to his side, he said: “Look at this sheet of paper. Do you see? These are the corrections made by my poor mother. She always strengthened my l’s and my t’s. And the last lines are entirely hers. She had learned to imitate my characters; and when I was tired and sleepy, she finished my work for me. My sainted mother!”

And he kissed the page.

“See here,” said the teacher, showing him the other packages; “these are my reminiscences. Each year I laid aside one piece of work of each of my pupils; and they are all here, dated and arranged in order. Every time that I open them thus, and read a line here and there, a thousand things recur to my mind, and I seem to be living once more in the days that are past. How many of them have passed, my dear sir! I close my eyes, and I see behind me face after face, class after class, hundreds and hundreds of boys, and who knows how many of them are already dead! Many of them I remember well. I recall distinctly the best and the worst: those who gave me the greatest pleasure, and those who caused me to pass sorrowful moments; for I have had serpents, too, among that vast number! But now, you understand, it is as though I were already in the other world, and I love them all equally.”

He sat down again, and took one of my hands in his.

“And tell me,” my father said, with a smile, “do you not recall any roguish tricks?”

“Of yours, sir?” replied the old man, also with a smile. “No; not just at this moment. But that does not in the least mean that you never played any. However, you had good judgment; you were serious for your age. I remember the great affection of your mother for you. But it is very kind and polite of you to have come to seek me out. How could you leave your occupations, to come and see a poor old schoolmaster?”

“Listen, Signor Crosetti,” responded my father with vivacity. “I recollect the first time that my poor mother accompanied me to school. It was to be her first parting from me for two hours; of letting me out of the house alone, in other hands than my father’s; in the hands of a stranger, in short. To this good creature my entrance into school was like my entrance into the world, the first of a long series of necessary and painful separations; it was society which was tearing her son from her for the first time, never again to return him to her intact. She was much affected; so was I. I bade her farewell with a trembling voice, and then, as she went away, I saluted her once more through the glass in the door, with my eyes full of tears. And just at that point you made a gesture with one hand, laying the other on your breast, as though to say, ‘Trust me, signora.’ Well, the gesture, the glance, from which I perceived that you had comprehended all the sentiments, all the thoughts of my mother; that look which seemed to say, ‘Courage!’ that gesture which was an honest promise of protection, of affection, of indulgence, I have never forgotten; it has remained forever engraved on my heart; and it is that memory which induced me to set out from Turin. And here I am, after the lapse of four and forty years, for the purpose of saying to you, ‘Thanks, dear teacher.’”

The master did not reply; he stroked my hair with his hand, and his hand trembled, and glided from my hair to my forehead, from my forehead to my shoulder.

In the meanwhile, my father was surveying those bare walls, that wretched bed, the morsel of bread and the little phial of oil which lay on the window-sill, and he seemed desirous of saying, “Poor master! after sixty years of teaching, is this all thy recompense?”

But the good old man was content, and began once more to talk with vivacity of our family, of the other teachers of that day, and of my father’s schoolmates; some of them he remembered, and some of them he did not; and each told the other news of this one or of that one. When my father interrupted the conversation, to beg the old man to come down into the town and lunch with us, he replied effusively, “I thank you, I thank you,” but he seemed undecided. My father took him by both hands, and besought him afresh. “But how shall I manage to eat,” said the master, “with these poor hands which shake in this way? It is a penance for others also.”

“We will help you, master,” said my father. And then he accepted, as he shook his head and smiled.

“This is a beautiful day,” he said, as he closed the outer door, “a beautiful day, dear Signor Bottini! I assure you that I shall remember it as long as I live.”

My father gave one arm to the master, and the latter took me by the hand, and we descended the lane. We met two little barefooted girls leading some cows, and a boy who passed us on a run, with a huge load of straw on his shoulders. The master told us that they were scholars of the second grade; that in the morning they led the cattle to pasture, and worked in the fields barefoot; and in the afternoon they put on their shoes and went to school. It was nearly mid-day. We encountered no one else. In a few minutes we reached the inn, seated ourselves at a large table, with the master between us, and began our breakfast at once. The inn was as silent as a convent. The master was very merry, and his excitement augmented his palsy: he could hardly eat. But my father cut up his meat, broke his bread, and put salt on his plate. In order to drink, he was obliged to hold the glass with both hands, and even then he struck his teeth. But he talked constantly, and with ardor, of the reading-books of his young days; of the notaries of the present day; of the commendations bestowed on him by his superiors; of the regulations of late years: and all with that serene countenance, a trifle redder than at first, and with that gay voice of his, and that laugh which was almost the laugh of a young man. And my father gazed and gazed at him, with that same expression with which I sometimes catch him gazing at me, at home, when he is thinking and smiling to himself, with his face turned aside.

The teacher allowed some wine to trickle down on his breast; my father rose, and wiped it off with his napkin. “No, sir; I cannot permit this,” the old man said, and smiled. He said some words in Latin. And, finally, he raised his glass, which wavered about in his hand, and said very gravely, “To your health, my dear engineer, to that of your children, to the memory of your good mother!”

“To yours, my good master!” replied my father, pressing his hand. And at the end of the room stood the innkeeper and several others, watching us, and smiling as though they were pleased at this attention which was being shown to the teacher from their parts.

At a little after two o’clock we came out, and the master wanted to escort us to the station. My father gave him his arm once more, and he again took me by the hand: I carried his cane for him. The people paused to look on, for they all knew him: some saluted him. At one point in the street we heard, through an open window, many boys’ voices, reading together, and spelling. The old man halted, and seemed to be saddened by it.

“This, my dear Signor Bottini,” he said, “is what pains me. To hear the voices of boys in school, and not be there any more; to think that another man is there. I have heard that music for sixty years, and I have grown to love it. Now I am deprived of my family. I have no sons.”

“No, master,” my father said to him, starting on again; “you still have many sons, scattered about the world, who remember you, as I have always remembered you.”

“No, no,” replied the master sadly; “I have no longer a school; I have no longer any sons. And without sons, I shall not live much longer. My hour will soon strike.”

“Do not say that, master; do not think it,” said my father. “You have done so much good in every way! You have put your life to such a noble use!”

The aged master inclined his hoary head for an instant on my father’s shoulder, and pressed my hand.

We entered the station. The train was on the point of starting.

“Farewell, master!” said my father, kissing him on both cheeks.

“Farewell! thanks! farewell!” replied the master, taking one of my father’s hands in his two trembling hands, and pressing it to his heart.

Then I kissed him and felt that his face was bathed in tears. My father pushed me into the railway carriage, and at the moment of starting he quickly removed the coarse cane from the schoolmaster’s hand, and in its place he put his own handsome one, with a silver handle and his initials, saying, “Keep it in memory of me.”

The old man tried to return it and to recover his own; but my father was already inside and had closed the door.

“Farewell, my kind master!”

“Farewell, my son!” responded the master as the train moved off; “and may God bless you for the consolation which you have afforded to a poor old man!”

“Until we meet again!” cried my father, in a voice full of emotion.

But the master shook his head, as much as to say, “We shall never see each other more.”

“Yes, yes,” repeated my father, “until we meet again!”

And the other replied by raising his trembling hand to heaven, “Up there!”

And thus he disappeared from our sight, with his hand on high.

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CONVALESCENCE.

Thursday, 20th.

Who could have told me, when I returned from that delightful excursion with my father, that for ten days I should not see the country or the sky again? I have been very ill—in danger of my life. I have heard my mother sobbing—I have seen my father very, very pale, gazing intently at me; and my sister Silvia and my brother talking in a low voice; and the doctor, with his spectacles, who was there every moment, and who said things to me that I did not understand. In truth, I have been on the verge of saying a final farewell to every one. Ah, my poor mother! I passed three or four days at least, of which I recollect almost nothing, as though I had been in a dark and perplexing dream. I thought I beheld at my bedside my kind schoolmistress of the upper primary, who was trying to stifle her cough in her handkerchief in order not to disturb me. In the same manner I confusedly recall my master, who bent over to kiss me, and who pricked my face a little with his beard; and I saw, as in a mist, the red head of Crossi, the golden curls of Derossi, the Calabrian clad in black, all pass by, and Garrone, who brought me a mandarin orange with its leaves, and ran away in haste because his mother is ill.

Then I awoke as from a very long dream, and understood that I was better from seeing my father and mother smiling, and hearing Silvia singing softly. Oh, what a sad dream it was! Then I began to improve every day. The little mason came and made me laugh once more for the first time, with his hare’s face; and how well he does it, now that his face is somewhat elongated through illness, poor fellow! And Coretti came; and Garoffi came to present me with two tickets in his new lottery of “a penknife with five surprises,” which he purchased of a second-hand dealer in the Via Bertola. Then, yesterday, while I was asleep, Precossi came and laid his cheek on my hand without waking me; and as he came from his father’s workshop, with his face covered with coal dust, he left a black print on my sleeve, the sight of which caused me great pleasure when I awoke.

How green the trees have become in these few days! And how I envy the boys whom I see running to school with their books when my father carries me to the window! But I shall go back there soon myself. I am so impatient to see all the boys once more, and my seat, the garden, the streets; to know all that has taken place during the interval; to apply myself to my books again, and to my copy-books, which I seem not to have seen for a year! How pale and thin my poor mother has grown! Poor father! how weary he looks! And my kind companions who came to see me and walked on tiptoe and kissed my brow! It makes me sad, even now, to think that one day we must part. Perhaps I shall continue my studies with Derossi and with some others; but how about all the rest? When the fourth grade is once finished, then good by! we shall never see each other again: I shall never see them again at my bedside when I am ill,—Garrone, Precossi, Coretti, who are such fine boys and kind and dear comrades,—never more!

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FRIENDS AMONG THE WORKINGMEN.

Thursday, 20th.

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GARRONE’S MOTHER.

Saturday, 29th.

On my return to school, the first thing I heard was some bad news. Garrone had not been there for several days because his mother was seriously ill. She died on Saturday. Yesterday morning, as soon as we came into school, the teacher said to us:—

“The greatest misfortune that can happen to a boy has happened to poor Garrone: his mother is dead. He will return to school to-morrow. I beseech you now, boys, respect the terrible sorrow that is now rending his soul. When he enters, greet him with affection, and gravely; let no one jest, let no one laugh at him, I beg of you.”

And this morning poor Garrone came in, a little later than the rest; I felt a blow at my heart at the sight of him. His face was haggard, his eyes were red, and he was unsteady on his feet; it seemed as though he had been ill for a month. I hardly recognized him; he was dressed all in black; he aroused our pity. No one even breathed; all gazed at him. No sooner had he entered than at the first sight of that schoolroom whither his mother had come to get him nearly every day, of that bench over which she had bent on so many examination days to give him a last bit of advice, and where he had so many times thought of her, in his impatience to run out and meet her, he burst into a desperate fit of weeping. The teacher drew him aside to his own place, and pressed him to his breast, and said to him:—

“Weep, weep, my poor boy; but take courage. Your mother is no longer here; but she sees you, she still loves you, she still lives by your side, and one day you will behold her once again, for you have a good and upright soul like her own. Take courage!”

Having said this, he accompanied him to the bench near me. I dared not look at him. He drew out his copy-books and his books, which he had not opened for many days, and as he opened the reading-book at a place where there was a cut representing a mother leading her son by the hand, he burst out crying again, and laid his head on his arm. The master made us a sign to leave him thus, and began the lesson. I should have liked to say something to him, but I did not know what. I laid one hand on his arm, and whispered in his ear:—

“Don’t cry, Garrone.”

He made no reply, and without raising his head from the bench he laid his hand on mine and kept it there a while. At the close of school, no one addressed him; all the boys hovered round him respectfully, and in silence. I saw my mother waiting for me, and ran to embrace her; but she repulsed me, and gazed at Garrone. For the moment I could not understand why; but then I perceived that Garrone was standing apart by himself and gazing at me; and he was gazing at me with a look of indescribable sadness, which seemed to say: “You are embracing your mother, and I shall never embrace mine again! You have still a mother, and mine is dead!” And then I understood why my mother had thrust me back, and I went out without taking her hand.

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GIUSEPPE MAZZINI.

Saturday, 29th.

This morning, also, Garrone came to school with a pale face and his eyes swollen with weeping, and he hardly cast a glance at the little gifts which we had placed on his desk to console him. But the teacher had brought a page from a book to read to him in order to encourage him. He first informed us that we are to go to-morrow at one o’clock to the town-hall to witness the award of the medal for civic valor to a boy who has saved a little child from the Po, and that on Monday he will dictate the description of the festival to us instead of the monthly story. Then turning to Garrone, who was standing with drooping head, he said to him:—

“Make an effort, Garrone, and write down what I dictate to you as well as the rest.”

We all took our pens, and the teacher dictated.

“Giuseppe Mazzini, born in Genoa in 1805, died in Pisa in 1872, a grand, patriotic soul, the mind of a great writer, the first inspirer and apostle of the Italian Revolution; who, out of love for his country, lived for forty years poor, exiled, persecuted, a fugitive heroically steadfast in his principles and in his resolutions. Giuseppe Mazzini, who adored his mother, and who derived from her all that there was noblest and purest in her strong and gentle soul, wrote as follows to a faithful friend of his, to console him in the greatest of misfortunes. These are almost his exact words:—

“‘My friend, thou wilt never more behold thy mother on this earth. That is the terrible truth. I do not attempt to see thee, because thine is one of those solemn and sacred sorrows which each must suffer and conquer for himself. Dost thou understand what I mean to convey by these words, It is necessary to conquer sorrow—to conquer the least sacred, the least purifying part of sorrow, that which, instead of rendering the soul better, weakens and debases it? But the other part of sorrow, the noble part—that which enlarges and elevates the soul—that must remain with thee and never leave thee more. Nothing here below can take the place of a good mother. In the griefs, in the consolations which life may still bring to thee, thou wilt never forget her. But thou must recall her, love her, mourn her death, in a manner which is worthy of her. O my friend, hearken to me! Death exists not; it is nothing. It cannot even be understood. Life is life, and it follows the law of life—progress. Yesterday thou hadst a mother on earth; to-day thou hast an angel elsewhere. All that is good will survive the life of earth with increased power. Hence, also, the love of thy mother. She loves thee now more than ever. And thou art responsible for thy actions to her more, even, than before. It depends upon thee, upon thy actions, to meet her once more, to see her in another existence. Thou must, therefore, out of love and reverence for thy mother, grow better and cause her joy for thee. Henceforth thou must say to thyself at every act of thine, “Would my mother approve this?” Her transformation has placed a guardian angel in the world for thee, to whom thou must refer in all thy affairs, in everything that pertains to thee. Be strong and brave; fight against desperate and vulgar grief; have the tranquillity of great suffering in great souls; and that it is what she would have.’”

“Garrone,” added the teacher, “be strong and tranquil, for that is what she would have. Do you understand?”

Garrone nodded assent, while great and fast-flowing tears streamed over his hands, his copy-book, and his desk.

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CIVIC VALOR.

(Monthly Story.)

At one o’clock we went with our schoolmaster to the front of the town-hall, to see the medal for civic valor bestowed on the lad who saved one of his comrades from the Po.

On the front terrace waved a huge tricolored flag.

We entered the courtyard of the palace.

It was already full of people. At the further end of it there was visible a table with a red cover, and papers on it, and behind it a row of gilded chairs for the mayor and the council; the ushers of the municipality were there, with their under-waistcoats of sky-blue and their white stockings. To the right of the courtyard a detachment of policemen, who had a great many medals, was drawn up in line; and beside them a detachment of custom-house officers; on the other side were the firemen in festive array; and numerous soldiers not in line, who had come to look on,—cavalrymen, sharpshooters, artillery-men. Then all around were gentlemen, country people, and some officers and women and boys who had assembled. We crowded into a corner where many scholars from other buildings were already collected with their teachers; and near us was a group of boys belonging to the common people, between ten and eighteen years of age, who were talking and laughing loudly; and we made out that they were all from Borgo Po, comrades or acquaintances of the boy who was to receive the medal. Above, all the windows were thronged with the employees of the city government; the balcony of the library was also filled with people, who pressed against the balustrade; and in the one on the opposite side, which is over the entrance gate, stood a crowd of girls from the public schools, and many Daughters of military men, with their pretty blue veils. It looked like a theatre. All were talking merrily, glancing every now and then at the red table, to see whether any one had made his appearance. A band of music was playing softly at the extremity of the portico. The sun beat down on the lofty walls. It was beautiful.

All at once every one began to clap their hands, from the courtyard, from the balconies, from the windows.

I raised myself on tiptoe to look.

The crowd which stood behind the red table had parted, and a man and woman had come forward. The man was leading a boy by the hand.

This was the lad who had saved his comrade.

The man was his father, a mason, dressed in his best. The woman, his mother, small and blond, had on a black gown. The boy, also small and blond, had on a gray jacket.

At the sight of all those people, and at the sound of that thunder of applause, all three stood still, not daring to look nor to move. A municipal usher pushed them along to the side of the table on the right.

All remained quiet for a moment, and then once more the applause broke out on all sides. The boy glanced up at the windows, and then at the balcony with the Daughters of military men; he held his cap in his hand, and did not seem to understand very thoroughly where he was. It struck me that he looked a little like Coretti, in the face; but he was redder. His father and mother kept their eyes fixed on the table.

In the meantime, all the boys from Borgo Po who were near us were making motions to their comrade, to attract his attention, and hailing him in a low tone: Pin! Pin! Pinot! By dint of calling they made themselves heard. The boy glanced at them, and hid his smile behind his cap.

At a certain moment the guards put themselves in the attitude of attention.

The mayor entered, accompanied by numerous gentlemen.

The mayor, all white, with a big tricolored scarf, placed himself beside the table, standing; all the others took their places behind and beside him.

The band ceased playing; the mayor made a sign, and every one kept quiet.

He began to speak. I did not understand the first words perfectly; but I gathered that he was telling the story of the boy’s feat. Then he raised his voice, and it rang out so clear and sonorous through the whole court, that I did not lose another word: “When he saw, from the shore, his comrade struggling in the river, already overcome with the fear of death, he tore the clothes from his back, and hastened to his assistance, without hesitating an instant. They shouted to him, ‘You will be drowned!’—he made no reply; they caught hold of him—he freed himself; they called him by name—he was already in the water. The river was swollen; the risk terrible, even for a man. But he flung himself to meet death with all the strength of his little body and of his great heart; he reached the unfortunate fellow and seized him just in time, when he was already under water, and dragged him to the surface; he fought furiously with the waves, which strove to overwhelm him, with his companion who tried to cling to him; and several times he disappeared beneath the water, and rose again with a desperate effort; obstinate, invincible in his purpose, not like a boy who was trying to save another boy, but like a man, like a father who is struggling to save his son, who is his hope and his life. In short, God did not permit so generous a prowess to be displayed in vain. The child swimmer tore the victim from the gigantic river, and brought him to land, and with the assistance of others, rendered him his first succor; after which he returned home quietly and alone, and ingenuously narrated his deed.

“Gentlemen, beautiful, and worthy of veneration is heroism in a man! But in a child, in whom there can be no prompting of ambition or of profit whatever; in a child, who must have all the more ardor in proportion as he has less strength; in a child, from whom we require nothing, who is bound to nothing, who already appears to us so noble and lovable, not when he acts, but when he merely understands, and is grateful for the sacrifices of others;—in a child, heroism is divine! I will say nothing more, gentlemen. I do not care to deck, with superfluous praises, such simple grandeur. Here before you stands the noble and valorous rescuer. Soldier, greet him as a brother; mothers, bless him like a son; children, remember his name, engrave on your minds his visage, that it may nevermore be erased from your memories and from your hearts. Approach, my boy. In the name of the king of Italy, I give you the medal for civic valor.”

An extremely loud hurrah, uttered at the same moment by many voices, made the palace ring.

The mayor took the medal from the table, and fastened it on the boy’s breast. Then he embraced and kissed him. The mother placed one hand over her eyes; the father held his chin on his breast.

The mayor shook hands with both; and taking the decree of decoration, which was bound with a ribbon, he handed it to the woman.

Then he turned to the boy again, and said: “May the memory of this day, which is such a glorious one for you, such a happy one for your father and mother, keep you all your life in the path of virtue and honor! Farewell!”

The mayor withdrew, the band struck up, and everything seemed to be at an end, when the detachment of firemen opened, and a lad of eight or nine years, pushed forwards by a woman who instantly concealed herself, rushed towards the boy with the decoration, and flung himself in his arms.

Another outburst of hurrahs and applause made the courtyard echo; every one had instantly understood that this was the boy who had been saved from the Po, and who had come to thank his rescuer. After kissing him, he clung to one arm, in order to accompany him out. These two, with the father and mother following behind, took their way towards the door, making a path with difficulty among the people who formed in line to let them pass,—policemen, boys, soldiers, women, all mingled together in confusion. All pressed forwards and raised on tiptoe to see the boy. Those who stood near him as he passed, touched his hand. When he passed before the schoolboys, they all waved their caps in the air. Those from Borgo Po made a great uproar, pulling him by the arms and by his jacket and shouting. “Pin! hurrah for Pin! bravo, Pinot!” I saw him pass very close to me. His face was all aflame and happy; his medal had a red, white, and green ribbon. His mother was crying and smiling; his father was twirling his mustache with one hand, which trembled violently, as though he had a fever. And from the windows and the balconies the people continued to lean out and applaud. All at once, when they were on the point of entering the portico, there descended from the balcony of the Daughters of military men a veritable shower of pansies, of bunches of violets and daisies, which fell upon the head of the boy, and of his father and mother, and scattered over the ground. Many people stooped to pick them up and hand them to the mother. And the band at the further end of the courtyard played, very, very softly, a most entrancing air, which seemed like a song by a great many silver voices fading slowly into the distance on the banks of a river.