好友卡隆 四日

雖然只有兩天的休假，我好像已有許多日子不見卡隆了。我愈和卡隆熟悉，愈覺得他可愛。不但我如此，大家都是這樣，只有幾個傲慢的人，嫌惡卡隆，不和他講話。這是因為卡隆一貫不受他們壓制的緣故。那大的孩子們正在舉起手來要去打幼小的孩子的時候，幼的只要叫一聲“卡隆！”那大的就會縮回手去的。卡隆的父親是鐵道的司機。卡隆小時候曾得過病，所以入學已遲；在我們一級里身材最高，氣力也最大。他能用一手舉起椅子來；常常吃著東西；為人很好，有人請求于他，不論鉛筆、橡皮、紙類、小刀，都肯借給或贈與。上課時，不言、不笑、不動，石頭般地安坐在狹小的課椅上，兩肩上裝著大大的頭，把背脊向前彎曲著。我去看他的時候，他總半閉了眼給我笑臉看。好像在那里說：“喂，安利柯，我們大家做好朋友啊！”我一見卡隆，總是要笑起來。他身子又長，背膊又闊，上衣、褲子、袖子都太小太短，至于帽子，小得差不多要從頭上落下來；外套露出綻縫，皮靴是破了的，領帶時常搓扭得成一條線。他的相貌，一見都使人喜歡，全級中誰都歡喜和他并坐。他算術很好，常用紅皮帶束了書本拿著。他有一把螺鈿鑲柄的大裁紙刀，這是去年陸軍大操的時候，他在野外拾得的。他有一次，因這刀傷了手，幾乎把指骨都切斷了。他不論人家怎樣嘲笑他，都不發怒，但是當他說著什么的時候，如果有人說他“這是謊話”，那就不得了了：他立刻火冒起來，眼睛發紅，一拳打下來，可以把椅子擊破。有一天星期六的早晨，他看見二年級里有一個小孩因失掉了錢，不能買筆記簿，立在街上哭，就把錢給他。他在母親的生日，費了三天工夫，寫了一封有八頁長的信，紙的四周，還曾用筆畫了許多裝飾的花樣呢。先生常注視著他，從他旁邊走過的時候，時常用手輕輕地去拍他的后頸，好像愛撫柔和的小牛的樣子。我真喜歡卡隆。當我握著他那大手的時候，那種歡喜真是非常！他的手和我的相比，就像大人的手了。我的確相信：卡隆真是能犧牲自己的生命而救助朋友的人。這種精神，在他的眼光里很顯明地可以看出，又從他那粗大的喉音中，也誰都可以聽辨出他所含有的優美的真情的。

賣炭者與紳士 七日

昨天卡羅·諾琵斯向培諦說的那樣的話，如果是卡隆，決不會說的。卡羅·諾琵斯因為他父親是上等人，很是傲慢。他的父親是個身材很高有黑須的沉靜的紳士，差不多每天早晨伴了諾琵斯到學校里來的。昨天，諾琵斯忽然和培諦相罵起來了。培諦是個頂年小的小孩子，是個賣炭者的兒子。諾琵斯因為自己的理錯了，無話可辯，就說：“你父親是個叫花子！”培諦氣得連發根都紅了，一聲不響，只簌簌地流著眼淚。好像后來他回去向父親哭訴了，他那賣炭的父親——全身墨黑的矮小的男子——午后上課時，就攜他兒子的手同到學校里來，把這事告訴了先生。我們大家都默不做聲。諾琵斯的父親正照例在門口替他兒子脫外套，聽見有人說起他的名字，就問先生說：“什么事？”

“你們的卡羅對這位的兒子說：‘你父親是個叫花子！’這位正在這里告訴這事呢。”先生回答說。

諾琵斯的父親臉紅了起來，對著自己的兒子問：“你，曾這樣說的嗎？”諾琵斯低了頭立在教室中央，什么都不回答，于是，他父親捉了他的手臂，拉他到培諦身旁，說：“快道歉！”

賣炭的好像很對不住他的樣子，說“不必，不必！”想上前阻止，可是紳士卻不答應，仍對了他兒子說：

“快道歉！照我所說的樣子快道歉：‘對于你的父親，說了非常失禮的話，這是我所不應該的。請原諒我。讓我的父親來握你父親的手。’要這樣說。”

賣炭的越發現出不安的神情來，好像在那里說“那不敢當”的樣子，紳士總不肯答應，于是諾琵斯俯了頭，用了斷斷續續的聲音說：

“對于……你的父親，……說了……非常失禮的話，這是……我所不應該的。……請你……原諒我。讓我的父親……來握……你父親的手。”

紳士把手向賣炭的伸去，賣炭的就握著使勁地搖起來。還把自己的兒子推近卡羅·諾琵斯，叫用兩手去抱他。“從此，請叫他們兩個坐在一處。”紳士這樣向先生請求，先生就令培諦坐在諾琵斯的位上，諾琵斯的父親等他們坐好了，就行了禮出去，賣炭的注視著這并坐的兩孩，立著沉思了一會兒，走到座位旁，對著諾琵斯，好像要說什么，好像很依戀，好像很對不起他的樣子，終于什么都不說，他張開了兩臂，好像要去抱諾琵斯了，可是也終于沒有去抱，只用了那粗大的手指，在諾琵斯的額上碰了一碰，等走出門口，還回頭向里面一瞥，這才出去。

先生對我們說：“今天的事情，大家不要忘掉，因為這可算這學年中最好的教訓了。”

弟弟的女先生 十日

我的弟弟病了，那個女教師代爾卡諦先生來探望。原來，賣炭者的兒子，從前也是由這先生教過的，先生講出可笑的故事來，引得我們都笑。兩年前，那賣炭家小孩的母親，因為她兒子得了獎牌，用很大的圍裙包了炭，拿到先生那里，當做謝禮，先生無論怎樣推辭，她終不答應，等拿了回家去的時候，居然哭了。先生又說，還有一個女人，曾把金錢裝入花束中送給她。先生的話，使我們聽了有趣發笑，弟弟在平日無論怎樣不肯吃的藥，這時也好好地吃了。

教導一年級的小孩，多少費力啊！有的牙齒未全，像個老人，發音發不好；有的要咳嗽；有的淌鼻血；有的因為靴子在椅子下面，說“沒有了”哭著；有的因鋼筆尖觸痛了手叫著；有的把習字帖的第一冊和第二冊掉錯了，吵不清。要教會五十個有著軟軟的手的小孩寫字，真是一件不容易的事。他們的袋里，藏著什么甘草、紐扣、瓶塞、碎瓦片等等的東西，先生要去搜查他們的時候，他們連鞋子里也會去藏。先生的話他們是一點也不聽的，有時從窗口飛進一只蒼蠅來，他們就大吵。夏天呢，把草拿進來，有的提了甲蟲在里面放；甲蟲在室內東西飛旋，有時落入墨水瓶中，弄得習字帖里都濺污了墨水。先生代替了小孩們的母親，替他們整理衣服；他們的手指受了傷，替他們裹繃帶；帽子落了，替他們拾起；替他們留心別拿錯了外套；用盡了心叫他們不要吵鬧。女先生真辛苦啊！可是，學生的母親們還要來提意見：什么“先生，我兒子的鋼筆尖為什么不見了？”什么“我的兒子一點都不進步，究竟為什么？”什么“我的兒子成績那樣的好，為什么得不到獎牌？”什么“我們配羅的褲子，被釘刺破了，你為什么不把那釘去了呢？”

據說：這先生有時對于小孩，受不住氣鬧，不覺舉起手來，終于用牙齒咬住了自己的手指，把氣忍住了。她發了怒以后，非常后悔，就去撫慰方才被罵過的小孩。也曾把頑皮的小孩趕出教室，趕出以后，自己卻咽著淚。有時，學生的父母要責罰他們自己的小孩，不給食物吃，先生聽見了，總是很不高興，要去阻止他們這樣做的。

先生年紀真輕，身材高長，衣裝整齊，很是活潑。無論做什么事都像彈簧樣地敏捷。是個多感而柔慈、易出眼淚的人。

“孩子們都非常和你親熱呢。”母親說。

“是這樣的，可是一到學年完結，就大都不顧著我了。他們到了要受男先生教的時候，就以受女先生的教為恥哩。兩年間，那樣地愛護了他們，一旦離開，真有點難過。那個孩子是一向親熱我的，大概不會忘記我吧。心里雖這樣自忖，可是一到放了假以后，你看！他回到學校里來的時候，我雖‘我的孩子，我的孩子！’地叫著走近他去，他卻把頭向著別處，睬也不睬你了哩。”

先生這樣說了，暫時住了口。又舉起她的濕潤的眼睛，吻著弟弟說：

“但是，你不是這樣的吧？你是不會把頭向著別處的吧？你是不會忘記我的吧？”

我的母親 十日

安利柯！你當你弟弟的先生來的時候，對于母親，說了非常失禮的話了！像那樣的事，不要再有第二次啊！我聽見你那話，心里苦得好像針刺！我記得：數年前你病的時候，你母親恐怕你病不會好，終夜坐在你床前，數你的脈搏，算你的呼吸，擔心得至于啜泣，我以為你母親要發瘋了，很是憂慮。一想到此，我對于你的將來，有點恐怖起來，你會對了你這樣的母親說出那樣不該的話！真是怪事！那是為要救你一時的痛苦不惜舍去自己一年間的快樂，為要救你生命不惜舍去自己生命的母親哩。

安利柯啊！你須記著！你在一生中，當然難免要嘗種種的艱苦，而其中最苦的一事，就是失去了母親。你將來年紀大了，嘗遍了世人的辛苦，必有時候會幾千次地回憶起你的母親來的。一分鐘也好，但求能再聽聽母親的聲音，只一次也好，但求再在母親的懷里，作小兒樣的哭泣：像這樣的時候，必定會有的。那時，你憶起了對于亡母曾經給予種種苦痛的事來，不知要怎樣地流后悔之淚呢！這不是可悲的事嗎？你如果現在使母親痛心，你將終生受良心的責備吧！母親的優美慈愛的面影，將來在你眼里，將成了悲痛的輕蔑的樣子，不絕地使你的靈魂痛苦吧！

啊！安利柯！須知道親子之愛，是人間所有的感情中最神圣的東西，破壞這感情的人，實是世上最不幸的。人雖犯了殺人之罪，只要他是敬愛自己的母親的，其胸中還有美的貴的部分留著；無論怎樣有名的人，如果他是使母親哭泣、使母親痛苦的，那就真是可鄙可賤的人物。所以，對于親生的母親，不該再說無禮的話，萬一一時不注意，把話說錯了，你該自己從心里懺悔，投身于你母親的膝下，請求赦免的接吻，在你的額上拭去不孝的污痕。我原是愛著你，你在我原是最重要的珍寶，可是，你對于你母親如果不孝，我寧愿還是沒有了你好。不要再走近我！不要來抱我！我現在沒有心來還抱你！

——父親

朋友可萊諦 十三日

父親饒恕了我了，我還悲痛著。母親送我出去，叫我和門房的兒子大家到河邊去散步。在河邊走著，到了一家門口停著貨車的店前，覺有人在叫我，回頭去看，原來是同學可萊諦。他身上流著汗正在活潑地扛著柴。立在貨車上的人抱了柴遞給他，可萊諦接了運到自己的店里，急急地堆積著。

“可萊諦，你在做什么？”我問。

“你不看見嗎！”他把兩只手伸向柴去，一面回答我。“我正在復習功課哩！”他又這樣接續著說。

我笑了，可是可萊諦卻認真地在嘴里這樣念著：“動詞的活用，因了數——數與人稱的差異而變化——”一面抱著一捆柴走去，放下了柴，把它堆好了：“又因動作起來的時而變化——”走到車旁取柴：“又因表出動作的法而變化。”

這是明日文法的復習。“我真忙啊！父親因事出門去了，母親病了在床上臥著，所以我不能不做事。一面做事，一面讀著文法。今日的文法很難呢，無論怎樣記，也記不牢。——父親說過，七點鐘回來付錢的哩。”他又向了貨車的人說。

貨車去了。“請進來！”可萊諦說。我進了店里，店屋廣闊，滿堆著木柴，木柴旁還掛著秤。

“今天是一個忙日，真的！一直沒有空閑過。正想作文，客人來了。客人走了以后，執筆要寫，方才的貨車來了。今天跑了柴市兩趟，腿麻木得像棒一樣，手也硬硬的，如果想畫畫，一定弄不好的。”說著又用掃帚掃去散在四周的枯葉和柴屑。

“可萊諦，你用功的地方在哪里？”我問。

“不在這里。你來看看！”他引我到了店后的小屋里，這屋差不多可以說是廚房兼食堂，桌上擺著書冊、筆記簿，和已開了頭的作文稿。“在這里啊！我還沒有把第二題做好——用革做的東西。有靴子、皮帶——還非再加一個不可呢——及皮袍。”他執了鋼筆寫著端正的字。

“有人嗎？”喊聲自外面進來，原來買主來了。可萊諦回答著“請進來！”奔跳出去，稱了柴，算了錢，又在壁角污舊的賣貨簿上把賬記了，重新走進來：“非快把這作文寫完了不可。”說著執了筆繼續寫上：“旅行包，兵士的背包——咿喲！咖啡滾了！”跑到暖爐旁取下咖啡瓶：“這是母親的咖啡。我已學會了咖啡煮法了哩。請等一等，我們大家拿了這個到母親那里去吧。母親一定很歡喜的。母親這個星期一直臥在床上。——呃，動詞的變化——我好幾次因這咖啡瓶燙痛了手呢，——兵士的背包以后，寫些什么好呢？——非再寫點上去不可——一時想不出來——且到母親那里去吧！”

可萊諦開了門，我和他同入那小室。母親臥在闊大的床上，頭部包著白的頭巾。

“啊！好哥兒？你是來望我的嗎？”可萊諦的母親看著我說。可萊諦替母親擺好了枕頭，拉直了被，往爐子里加上了煤，趕出臥在箱子上的貓。

“母親，不再飲了嗎？”可萊諦說著從母親手中接過杯子：“藥已喝了嗎？如果完了，讓我再跑藥店去。柴是已經卸好了。四點鐘的時候，把肉拿來燒了吧。賣牛油的如果走過，把那八個銅子還了他就是了。諸事我都會弄好的，你不必多勞心了。”

“虧得有你！你可以去了。一切留心些。”他母親這樣說了，還叫我必定須吃塊方糖。可萊諦指著他父親的照相給我看。他父親穿了軍服，胸間掛著勛章，據說是在溫培爾脫親王部下的時候得來的。相貌和可萊諦一模一樣，眼睛也是活潑潑的，也作著很快樂的笑容。

我們又回到廚房里來了。“有了！”可萊諦說著繼續在筆記簿上寫，“——馬鞍也是革做的——以后晚上再做吧。今天非遲睡不可了。你真幸福，用功的工夫也有，散步的閑暇也有呢。”他又活潑地跑出店堂，將柴擱在臺上用鋸截斷：

“這是我的體操哩。可是和那‘兩手向前！’的體操是不同的了。我在父親回來以前把這柴鋸了，使他見了歡喜吧。最討厭的，就是手拿了鋸以后，寫起字來，筆畫要同蛇一樣。但是也無法可想，只好在先生面前把事情直說了。——母親快點病好才好啊！今天已好了許多，我真快活！明天雞一叫，就起來預備文法吧。——咿喲！柴又來了。快去搬吧！”

貨車滿裝著柴，已停在店前了。可萊諦走向車去，又回過來：“我已不能奉陪你了。明日再會吧。你來得真好，再會，再會！快快樂樂地散你的步吧，你真是幸福啊！”他把我的手緊握了一下，仍去來往于店車之間，臉孔紅紅地像薔薇，那種敏捷的動作，使人看了也爽快。

“你真是幸福啊！”他雖對我這樣說，其實不然，啊！可萊諦！其實不然。你才是比我幸福呢。因為你既能用功，又能勞動，能替你父母盡力。你比我要好一百倍，勇敢一百倍呢！好朋友啊！

校長先生 十八日

可萊諦今天在學校里很高興，因為他三年級時的先生到校里來做考試監督來了。這位先生名叫考諦，是個肥壯、大頭、縮發、黑須的先生，眼光炯炯的，話聲響如大炮。這先生常恐嚇小孩們，說什么要撕斷了他們的手足交付警察，有時還要裝出種種可怕的臉孔。可是，他其實決不會責罰小孩的。他無論何時，總在胡須底下作著笑容，不過被胡須遮住，大家都看不出來。男先生共有八人，考諦先生之外，還有像小孩樣的助手先生。五年級的先生是個跛子，平常圍著大的毛圍巾，據說，他在鄉間學校的時候，因為校舍潮濕，壁里滿是濕氣，就得了病，到現在身上還是要作痛哩。那級里還有一位白發的老先生，據說以前是曾做過盲人學校的教師的。另外還有一位衣服華美，戴了眼鏡，留著好看的頰須的先生。他在教書的時候，又自己研究法律，曾得過證書，所以得著一個 “小律師”的綽號，這先生又曾著過《書簡文教授法》的書。教體操的先生，是一位軍人那樣的人。據說曾經隸屬于格里巴第將軍的部下，項頸上留著彌拉查戰爭時的刀傷。還有一個就是校長先生，高身禿頭，戴著金邊的眼鏡，花白的須，長長地垂在胸前。平常穿著黑色的衣服，紐扣一直扣到腮下。他是個很和善的先生。學生犯了規則被喚到校長室里去的時候，總覺得是戰戰兢兢的，先生并不責罵，只是攜了那小孩的手，好好開導，叫他下次不要再有那種事，并且安慰他，叫他以后做好孩子。因為他是用了和善的聲氣，親切地說的，小孩出來的時候總是紅著眼睛，覺得比受罰還要難過。校長先生每晨第一個到校，等學生來，候父兄來談話。別的先生回去了以后，他一個人還自己留著，在學校附近到處巡視，恐怕有學生被車子碰倒，或在路上惡頑的。只要一看見先生的那高而黑的影子，群集在路上逗留的小孩們，就會棄了玩具東西逃散。 先生那時，總遠遠地用了難過而充滿了情愛的臉色，喚住正在逃散的小孩們的。

據母親說：先生自愛兒入了志愿兵死去以后，就不見有笑容了。現在校長室的小桌上，放著他愛兒的照相。先生遭了那不幸以后，一時曾想辭職，據說已將向市政所提出的辭職書寫好，藏在抽屜里，因為不忍與小孩別離，還躊躇著未曾決定。有一天，我父親在校長室和先生談話，父親向著先生說道：“辭職是多少乏味的事啊！”這時，恰巧有一個人領了孩子來見校長，是請求他許可轉學的。校長先生見了那小孩，似乎吃了一驚，將那小孩的相貌和桌上的照相比較打量了好久，拉小孩靠近膝旁，托了他的頭，注視一會兒，說了一聲“可以的”，記出姓名，叫他們父子回去，自己仍沉思著。我父親又繼續著說：“先生一辭職，我們不是困難了嗎？”先生聽了，就從抽屜里取出辭職書，撕成兩段，說：“已把辭職的意思打消了。”

兵士 二十二日

校長先生自愛兒在陸軍志愿兵中死去了以后，課外的時間，常常出去看兵隊的通過。昨天又有一個聯隊在街上通過，小孩們都集攏了一處，合了那樂隊的調子，把竹尺敲擊皮袋或書夾，依了拍子跳旋著。我們也站在路旁，看著軍隊進行。卡隆穿了狹小的衣服，也嚼著很大的面包在那里站著看。還有衣服很漂亮的華梯尼呀；鐵匠的兒子，穿著父親的舊衣服的潑來可西呀；格拉勃利亞少年呀；“小石匠”呀；赤發的克洛西呀；相貌很平常的勿蘭諦呀；炮兵大尉的兒子，因從馬車下救出幼兒自己跛了腳的洛佩諦呀；都在一起。有一個跛了足的兵士走過，勿蘭諦笑了起來。忽然，有人去抓勿蘭諦的肩頭，仔細一看，原來是校長先生。校長先生說：“注意！嘲笑在隊伍中的兵士，好像辱罵在縛著的人，真是可恥的事！”勿蘭諦立刻躲避到不知哪里去了。兵士們分作四列進行，身上都流著汗，沾滿了灰塵，槍映在日光中閃爍地發光。

校長先生對我們說：

“你們不能不感謝兵士們啊！他們是我們的保衛者。一旦有外國軍隊來侵犯我國的時候，他們就是代我們去拼命的人。他們和你們年紀相差不多，都是少年，也是在那里用功的。看哪！你們一看他們的面色就可知道全意大利各處的人都有在里面：西西利人也有，那不勒斯人也有，賽地尼亞人也有，隆巴爾地人也有。這是曾經加入過一八四四年戰爭的古聯隊，兵士雖經變更，軍旗還是當時的軍旗。在你們未誕生以前，為了國家，在這軍旗下戰死過的人，不知有多少呢！”

“來了！”卡隆叫著說。真的，軍旗就在眼前兵士們的頭上了。

“大家聽啊！那三色旗通過的時候，應該行舉手注目的敬禮的哩！”

一個士官捧了聯隊旗在我們面前通過，已是塊塊破裂褪了色的旗幟了，旗桿頂上掛著勛章。大家向著行舉手注目禮，旗手對了我們微笑，舉手答禮。

“諸位，難得，”后面有人這樣說。回頭去看，原來是年老的退職士官，紐孔里掛著克里米亞戰役的從軍徽章，“難得！你們做了好事了！”他反復著說。

這時候，樂隊已沿著河岸轉了方向了，小孩們的哄鬧聲與喇叭聲彼此和著。老士官注視著我們說：“難得，難得！從小尊敬軍旗的人，大起來就是擁護軍旗的。”

耐利的保護者 二十三日

駝背的耐利，昨天也在看兵士的行軍，他的神氣很可憐，好像說：“我不能當兵士了。”耐利是個好孩子，成績也好，身體小而弱，連呼吸都似乎困苦的。他母親是個矮小白色的婦人，每到學校放課時，總來接她兒子回去。最初，別的學生，都要嘲弄耐利，有的用了書包去碰他那突出的背，耐利卻毫不反抗，且不將人家以他為玩物的話告訴他母親，無論怎樣被人玩弄，他只是靠在座位里無言哭泣罷了。

有一天，卡隆突然跳了出來對大家說：

“你們再碰耐利一碰，我一個耳光，要他轉三個圈子！”

勿蘭諦不相信這話，當真嘗了卡隆的老拳，果然一拳去轉了三個圈子。從此以后，再沒有敢玩弄耐利的人了。先生知道這事，使卡隆和耐利同坐在一張桌子里。兩個人很要好，耐利尤愛著卡隆，他到教室里，必要先看卡隆有沒有到，回去的時候，沒有一次不說“卡隆再會”的。卡隆也同樣，耐利的鋼筆書冊等落到地下時，卡隆不要耐利費力，立刻俯下去替他拾起；此外，又替他幫種種的忙，或替他把用具裝入書包里，或替他穿外套。耐利平常總向著卡隆，聽見先生稱贊卡隆，他就歡喜得如同稱贊自己一樣。耐利到了后來，好像已把從前受人玩弄、暗泣，幸賴一個朋友保護的事，告訴了他的母親了。今天在學校里有這樣的一件事：先生有事差我到校長室去，恰巧來了一個著黑衣服的小而白色的婦人，這就是耐利的母親。“校長先生，有個名叫卡隆的，是在我兒子的一級里的嗎？”這樣問。

“是的。”校長回答。

“有句話要和他說，可否請叫了他來？”

校長命校役去叫卡隆，不一會兒，卡隆的大而短發的頭已在門框間看見了。他不知叫他為了何事，正露出著很吃驚的樣子。那婦人一看見他，就跳了過去。將腕彎在他的肩上，不絕地吻他的額：

“你就是卡隆！是我兒子的好朋友！幫助我兒子的！就是你！好勇敢的人！就是你！”說著，急忙地用手去摸衣袋，又取出荷包來看，一時找不出東西，就從頸間取下帶著小小十字架的鏈子來，套上卡隆的頸項：

“將這給你吧，當做我的紀念！——當做感謝你，時時為你祈禱著的耐利的母親的紀念！請你掛著吧！”

級長 二十五日

卡隆令人可愛，代洛西令人佩服。代洛西每次總是第一，取得一等獎，今年大約仍是如此的。可以敵得過代洛西的人，一個都沒有，他什么都好，無論算術、作文、圖畫，總是他第一。他一學即會，有著驚人的記憶力，凡事不費什么力氣，學問在他，好像游戲一般。先生昨天向著他說：

“你從上帝享受得非常的恩賜，不要自己暴棄啊！”

并且，他身材高大，神情挺秀，黃金色的發，蓬蓬地覆著頭額。身體輕捷，只要用手一撐，就能輕松地跳過椅子。劍術也已學會了。年紀十二歲，是個富商之子。穿著青色的金紐扣的衣服，平常總是高興活潑，待什么人都和氣，測驗的時候肯教導別人。對于他，誰都不曾說過無禮的話。只有諾琵斯和勿蘭諦白眼對他，華梯尼看他時，眼里也閃著嫉妒的光。可是他卻似毫不介意這些的。同學見了他，誰也不能不微笑，他做了級長，來往桌位間收集成績的時候，大家都要去捉他的手。他從家里得了畫片來，如數分贈朋友，還畫了一張小小的格拉勃利亞地圖送給那格拉勃利亞小孩。他給東西與別人的時候，總是笑著，好像不以為意地。他不偏愛哪一個，待哪一個都一樣。我有時候比不過他，不覺難過，啊！我也和華梯尼一樣，嫉妒著代洛西呢！當我拼了命思索難題的時候，想到代洛西此刻早已完全做好，無氣可出，常常要氣怒他，但是一到學校，見了他那秀美而微笑的臉孔，聽著他那可愛的話聲，接著他那親切的態度，就把氣怒他的念頭消釋，覺得自己可恥，覺得和他在一處讀書，是很可喜的了。他的神情，他的聲音，都好像替我鼓吹勇氣熱心和快活喜悅的。

先生把明天的“每月例話”稿子交給代洛西，叫他謄清。他今天正寫著。好像他對于那篇講演的內容非常感動，臉孔燒著火紅，眼睛幾乎要下淚，嘴唇也顫著。那時他的神氣，看去真是純正！我在他面前，幾乎要這樣說：“代洛西！你什么都比我高強，你比了我，好像一個大人！我真正尊敬你，崇拜你啊！”

少年偵探（每月例話） 二十六日

一八五九年，法意兩國聯軍因救隆巴爾地，與奧地利戰爭，曾幾次打破奧軍。這正是那時候的事：六月里一個晴天的早晨，意國騎兵一隊，沿了間道徐徐前進，一面偵察敵情。這隊兵是由一士官和一軍曹指揮著的，都噤了口注視著前方，看有沒有敵軍前哨的光影。一直到了在樹林中的一家農舍門口，見有一個十二歲光景的少年立在那里，用小刀切了樹枝削作杖棒。農舍的窗間飄著三色旗，人已不在了。因為怕敵兵來襲，所以插了國旗逃了的。少年看見騎兵來，就棄了在做的杖，舉起帽子。是個大眼活潑而面貌很好的孩子，脫了上衣，正露出著胸脯。

“在做什么？”士官停了馬問，“為什么不和你家族逃走呢？”

“我沒有家族，是個孤兒。也會替人家做點事，因為想看看打仗，所以留在這里的。”少年答說。

“見有奧國兵走過么？”

“不，這三天沒有見到過。”

士官沉思了一會兒，下了馬，命兵士們注意前方，自己爬上農舍屋頂去。可是那屋太低了，望不見遠處，士官又下來，心里想，“非爬上樹去不可。”恰巧農舍面前有一株高樹，樹梢在空中飄動著。士官考慮了一會兒，把樹梢和兵士的臉孔，上下打量，忽然，向著少年：

“喂！孩子！你眼力好嗎？”

“眼力嗎，一哩外的雀兒也看得見呢。”

“你能上這樹梢嗎？”

“這樹梢！我？那真是不要半分鐘的工夫。”

“那么，孩子！你上去替我望望前面有沒有敵兵，有沒有煙氣，有沒有槍刺的光和馬那種東西？”

“就這樣吧。”

“應該給你多少？”

“你說我要多少錢嗎？不要！我歡喜做這事。如果是敵人叫我，我哪里肯呢？為了國家才肯如此。我也是隆巴爾地人哩！”少年微笑著回答。

“好的，那么你上去。”

“且慢，讓我脫了皮鞋。”

少年脫了皮鞋，把腰帶束緊了，將帽了擲在地上，抱向樹干去。

“當心！”士官的叫聲，好似要他轉來，少年用了那青色的眼，回過頭去看著士官，似乎問他什么。

“沒有什么，你上去。”

少年就像貓樣地上去了。

“注意前面！”士官向著兵士叫喊。少年已爬上了樹梢。身子被枝條網著。腳雖因樹葉遮住了不能看見，上身卻可從遠處望見。那蓬蓬的頭發，在日光中閃作黃金色。樹真高了，從下面望去，少年的身體縮得很小了。

“一直看前面！”士官叫著說。少年將右手放了樹干，遮在眼上望去。

“見到什么嗎？”士官問。

少年向了下面，用手圈成喇叭套在嘴上回答說：“有兩個騎馬的在路上站著呢。”

“離這里多少？”

“半哩。”

“在那里動嗎？”

“只是站著的。”

“別的還看見什么？向右邊看。”

少年向右方望：“近墓地的地方，樹林里有什么亮晶晶的東西，大概是槍刺吧。”

“不看見有人嗎？”

“沒人，恐是躲在稻田中吧。”

這時，“嘶”地子彈從空中掠了過來，落在農舍后面。

“下來，已被敵人看見你了。已經好了，下來！”士官叫著說。

“我不怕。”少年回答。

“下來！”士官又叫，“左邊不見有什么嗎？”

“左邊？”

“唔，是的。”

少年把頭向左轉去。這時，有一種比前次更尖銳的聲音就在少年頭上掠過。少年一驚，不覺叫道：“他們向我射擊起來了。”槍彈正從少年身旁飛過，真是只有一發之差。

“下來！”士官著急地叫。

“立刻下來了。但是現在已有樹葉遮住，不要緊了。你說看左邊嗎？”

“唔，左邊。但是，可下來了！”

少年把身體突向左方，大聲地：“左邊有寺的地方——”話猶未完，又一聲很尖銳的聲音，掠過空中。少年像是忽然下來了，還以為他正在靠住樹干，不料即張開了手，石塊似的落在地上。

“完了！”士官絕叫著跑上前去。

少年仰天橫在地上，伸了兩手死了。軍曹與兩個兵士，從馬上飛跳下來。士兵伏在少年身上，解開了他的襯衫一看，見槍彈正中在右肺。“沒有希望了！”士官嘆息著說。

“不，還有氣呢！”軍曹說。

“唉！可憐！難得的孩子！喂！當心！”士官說著，用手巾抑住傷口，少年兩眼炯炯地張了一張。頭就向后垂下，斷了氣了。士官蒼白著臉對少年看了一看，就把少年的上衣鋪在草上，將尸體靜靜橫倒，自己立了看著，軍曹與兩個兵士也立視著不動。別的兵士注意著前方。“可憐！把這勇敢的少年——”士官這樣反復地說了，忽然轉念，把那窗口的三色旗取下，罩在尸體上當做尸衣，軍曹集攏了少年的皮鞋、帽子、小刀、杖等，放在旁邊。他們一時都靜默地立著，過了一會兒，士官向軍曹說道：“叫他們拿擔架來！這孩子是當做軍人而死，可以用軍人的禮儀來葬他的。”說著，向著少年的尸體，吻了自己的手再用手加到尸體上，代替接吻。立刻向兵士們命令說：“上馬！”

一聲令下，全體上了馬繼續前進，經過數小時之后，這少年就在軍隊里受到了下面那樣的敬禮：

日沒時，意大利軍前衛的全線，向敵行進，數日前把桑馬底諾小山染成血紅的一大隊射擊兵，從今天騎兵通行的田野路上作了兩列進行。少年戰死的消息，出發前已傳遍全隊，這隊所取的路徑，與那農舍相距只隔幾步。在前面的將校等，見大樹下的用三色旗遮蓋著的少年，通過時都捧了劍表示敬意。一個將校俯身到小河的岸摘取東西散開著的花草，灑在少年身上，全隊的兵士也都模仿著摘了花向尸上投灑，一瞬間，少年已埋在花的當中了。將校兵士大家齊聲叫說：“勇敢啊！隆巴爾地少年！”“再會！朋友啊！”“金發兒萬歲！”一個將校把自己掛著的勛章投了過去，還有一個走近去吻他的額。草花仍繼續地有人投過去，落雨般地灑在那可憐的腳上、染著血的臂上、黃金色的頭上，少年包了旗橫臥在草上，露出蒼白的笑臉。啊！他好像是聽了許多人的稱贊，把為國喪生的事當做了自己的最大的滿足！

貧民 二十九日

安利柯啊！像隆巴爾地少年的為國捐身，固然是大大的德行，但你不要忘記，我們此外不可不為的小德行，不知還有多少啊！今天你在我的前面走過街上時，有一個抱著瘦小蒼白的小孩的女乞丐向你討錢，你什么都沒有給，只看著走開罷咧！那時，你袋中是應該有著銅幣的。安利柯啊！好好聽著！不幸的人伸了手求乞時，我們不該假裝不知的啊！尤其是對于為了自己的小兒而求乞的母親，不該這樣。這小兒或者正饑餓著也說不定，如果這樣，那母親的難過將怎樣呢？假定你母親不得已要至于對你說：“安利柯啊！今日不能再給你食物了呢！”的時候，你想；那時的母親，心里是怎樣？

給予乞丐一個銅幣，他就會從真心感謝你，說：“神必保佑你和你家族的健康。”聽著這祝福時的快樂，是你所未曾嘗到過的。受著那種言語時的快樂，我想，真是可以增加我們的健康的。我每從乞丐聽到這種話時，覺得反不能不感謝乞丐，覺得乞丐所報我的比我所給他的更多：常這樣懷著滿足回到家里來。你碰著無依無靠的盲人，饑餓的母親，無父母的孤兒的時候，可從錢包中把錢分給他們。僅在學校附近看，不是已有許多貧民了嗎？貧民所歡喜的，特別是小孩的施與，因為：大人施與他們時，他們覺得比較低下，從小孩手里接受則是覺得不足恥的。大人的施與不過只是慈善的行為，小兒的施與于慈善外還有著親切，——你懂嗎？用譬喻說，好像從你手里落下花和錢來的樣子。你要想想：你什么都不缺乏，世間有缺乏著一切的；你在求奢侈，世間有但求不死就算滿足的。你又要想想：在充滿了許多殿堂車馬的都市之中，在穿著華美服裝的小孩們之中，竟有著無衣無食的女人和小孩，這是何等可寒心的事啊！他們沒有食物吃哪！不可憐嗎？在這大都市中，有許多品質也同樣的好，很有才能的小孩，窮得沒有食物，像荒野的獸類一樣。啊！安利柯啊！從此以后，如遇有乞食的母親，不要再不給一錢管自走開！

——父親

MY FRIEND GARRONE. Friday, 4th.

There had been but two days of vacation, yet it seemed to me as though I had been a long time without seeing Garrone. The more I know him, the better I like him; and so it is with all the rest, except with the overbearing, who have nothing to say to him, because he does not permit them to exhibit their oppression. Every time that a big boy raises his hand against a little one, the little one shouts, “Garrone!” and the big one stops striking him. His father is an engine-driver on the railway; he has begun school late, because he was ill for two years. He is the tallest and the strongest of the class; he lifts a bench with one hand; he is always eating; and he is good. Whatever he is asked for, —a pencil, rubber, paper, or penknife, —he lends or gives it; and he neither talks nor laughs in school: he always sits perfectly motionless on a bench that is too narrow for him, with his spine curved forward, and his big head between his shoulders; and when I look at him, he smiles at me with his eyes half closed, as much as to say, “Well, Enrico, are we friends?” He makes me laugh, because, tall and broad as he is, he has a jacket, trousers, and sleeves which are too small for him, and too short; a cap which will not stay on his head; a threadbare cloak;coarse shoes; and a necktie which is always twisted into a cord. Dear Garrone! it needs but one glance in thy face to inspire love for thee. All the little boys would like to be near his bench. He knows arithmetic well. He carries his books bound together with a strap of red leather. He has a knife, with a mother-of-pearl handle, which he found in the field for military man?uvres, last year, and one day he cut his finger to the bone; but no one in school envies him it, and no one breathes a word about it at home, for fear of alarming his parents. He lets us say anything to him in jest, and he never takes it ill; but woe to any one who says to him, “That is not true,” when he affirms a thing: then fire flashes from his eyes, and he hammers down blows enough to split the bench. Saturday morning he gave a soldo to one of the upper first class, who was crying in the middle of the street, because his own had been taken from him, and he could not buy his copy-book. For the last three days he has been working over a letter of eight pages, with pen ornaments on the margins, for the saint's day of his mother, who often comes to get him, and who, like himself, is tall and large and sympathetic. The master is always glancing at him, and every time that he passes near him he taps him on the neck with his hand, as though he were a good, peaceable young bull. I am very fond of him. I am happy when I press his big hand, which seems to be the hand of a man, in mine. I am almost certain that he would risk his life to save that of a comrade; that he would allow himself to be killed in his defence, so clearly can I read his eyes; and although he always seems to be grumbling with that big voice of his, one feels that it is a voice that comes from a gentle heart.

THE CHARCOAL-MAN AND THE GENTLEMAN. Monday, 7th.

Garrone would certainly never have uttered the words which Carlo Nobis spoke yesterday morning to Betti. Carlo Nobis is proud, because his father is a great gentleman;a tall gentleman, with a black beard, and very serious, who accompanies his son to school nearly every day. Yesterday morning Nobis quarrelled with Betti, one of the smallest boys, and the son of a charcoal-man, and not knowing what retort to make, because he was in the wrong, said to him vehemently, “Your father is a tattered beggar!” Betti reddened up to his very hair, and said nothing, but the tears came to his eyes; and when he returned home, he repeated the words to his father; so the charcoal-dealer, a little man, who was black all over, made his appearance at the afternoon session, leading his boy by the hand, in order to complain to the master. While he was making his complaint, and every one was silent, the father of Nobis, who was taking off his son's coat at the entrance, as usual, entered on hearing his name pronounced, and demanded an explanation.

“This workman has come,” said the master, “to complain that your son Carlo said to his boy, ‘Your father is a tattered beggar.'”

Nobis's father frowned and reddened slightly. Then he asked his son, “Did you say that? ”

His son, who was standing in the middle of the school, with his head hanging, in front of little Betti, made no reply.

Then his father grasped him by one arm and pushed him forward, facing Betti, so that they nearly touched, and said to him, “Beg his pardon.”

The charcoal-man tried to interpose, saying, “No, no!” but the gentleman paid no heed to him, and repeated to his son, “Beg his pardon. Repeat my words. ‘I beg your pardon for the insulting, foolish, and ignoble words which I uttered against your father, whose hand my father would feel himself honored to press.'”

The charcoal-man made a resolute gesture, as though to say, “I will not allow it.”The gentleman did not second him, and his son said slowly, in a very thread of a voice, without raising his eyes from the ground, “I beg your pardon—for the insulting—foolish—ignoble—words which I uttered against your father, whose hand my father—would feel himself honored—to press.”

Then the gentleman offered his hand to the charcoal-man, who shook it vigorously, and then, with a sudden push, he thrust his son into the arms of Carlo Nobis.

“Do me the favor to place them next each other,” said the gentleman to the master. The master put Betti on Nobis's bench. When they were seated, the father of Nobis bowed and went away.

The charcoal-man remained standing there in thought for several moments, gazing at the two boys side by side; then he approached the bench, and fixed upon Nobis a look expressive of affection and regret, as though he were desirous of saying something to him, but he did not say anything; he stretched out his hand to bestow a caress upon him, but he did not dare, and merely stroked his brow with his large fingers. Then he made his way to the door, and turning round for one last look, he disappeared.

“Fix what you have just seen firmly in your minds, boys,” said the master; “this is the finest lesson of the year.”

MY BROTHER's SCHOOLMISTRESS. Thursday, 10th.

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 qu?stor, 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.