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CUORE

Edmondo de Amicis

THE HEART OF A BOY

FOREWORD

Cuore had a part in the making of modern Italy. Soon after publication in 1886 it was prescribed for study in

the new state schools, at which attendance was compulsory. Since then it has appeared in hundreds of editions. It hasbeen made into a film and adapted for radio and television.

Edmondo De Amicis (1846-1908) wrote the book for young people, and succeeding generations have lived

through the school year 1881-2 with Enrico the diarist and Garrone his hero, with Crossi whose father was 'in

America', Coretti the wood-seller's son, with the grim Stardi and Franti the delinquent, with Carlo Nobis the young

gentleman, with the generous Derossi who was invariably top of the class, and the other people in Enrico's school.

The interest and sympathies of young readers are engaged. Adults in addition will see that the author has lessons to

teach.All must be loyal to the new state. When De Amicis was born in Piedmont, Italy lay dismembered. Much of

the north was part of the Austrian Empire, the south formed the kingdom of a branch of the Spanish House of

Bourbon and the central states were ruled by the Pope. Only Piedmont was ruled by an Italian dynasty, the House of

Savoy, and Piedmont took the lead in the struggle for Italian unity. Unity was complete in 1870 when Italian troops

occupied Rome itself. So it was that the twenty-four years of De Amicis's youth were filled with the struggle for the

great cause. He was himself a professional soldier and fought at Custozza in 1866 against the Austrians.

When parts of the country had been dominated by the foreigner, hostility towards the government was perhaps a

virtue. Now there must be loyalty to the Italian state, and this message is clear in the pages ofCuore. People from all

parts of Italy must regard one another as fellow-citizens. Count Cavour, the Prime Minister of Piedmont, hadlaboured to create a kingdom of Italy. To him and most northerners that had meant northern Italy. They did not want

the backward, even barbaric, south and could not risk the possible international consequences of invading papal

territory. But Garibaldi and the Thousand forced the issue and handed the unwelcome conquests to the House of

Savoy. Now all Italians had a common citizenship, regardless of their region of origin. De Amicis points this outmost clearly in the story in which a boy from Calabria five hundred miles away joined Enrico's class in Turin.

Coore helped to establish the present literary language of ltaly. When de Amicis was a young man none of the

numerous forms of the language spoken in the various regions had received unquestioned recognition as the

standard Italian language. The celebrated writer Alessandro Manzoni believed that Florentine should be accepted asthe standard and in 1840 rewrote his great historical novel I promessi sposi (The Betrothed), which was first

published in 1827, in that idiom. The younger man, De Amicis, was an admirer of Manzoni. He strove to perfecthimself in Florentine Italian and wrote in it. Every child had to go to school and Cuore was prescribed reading. We

may conclude that De Amicis had considerable influence on the written language of the new state.

In Cuore the traditional virtues of honesty, courage, unselfishness, modesty, tolerance and hard work are

unreservedly admired and taught. One could believe that the author had made a list of the unfortunate groups in

society - the poor, the sick, the deaf and dumb, the blind, the deformed, prisoners - and written a story which

indicates a proper, compassionate attitude towards them. The results are heartening. So it was that in Cuore

Edmondo De Amicis suggested the noble possibilities of the young Italy to her young citizens. The book may be

interesting as a historical document to the adult, but it has lived because the characters still live and its values arestill widely cherished.

Desmond Hartley


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This book is specially dedicated to children in the elementary schools between the age of nine and thirteen,

and it could be called The Story of a School Year, Written by a Third Year Pupil in an Italian Council School.

When I say written by a third-year pupil, I do not mean to say that he himself wrote it exactly as it is printed. He

wrote down little by little in an exercise book as well as he could what he had seen, heard and thought in and out of

school; and at the end of the year, using those not, his father wrote these pages, taking care not to change the

thoughts and, as far as possible, using his sons own words. The boy then reread the manuscript four years later

when h e was already at the grammar school and made his own additions using memories still fresh of people andthings. Now read this book, children, I hope that you will pleased with it and profit from it.

OCTOBER

The first day of school 3

Our teacher 3

An accident 4

The boy from Calabria 5

My classmates 5A noble act 6

My teacher in 1A 7

In the attic 7

School 8

The little Paduan patriot 9

NOVEMBER

The chimney sweep 10

All Souls Day 10

My friend Garrone 11

The coalman and the gentleman 12

My younger brothers teacher 12

My mother 13My school friend Coretti 14

The headmaster 15

The soldiers 16

Nellis protector 17

Top of the class 18

The little Lombard sentry 18

The poor 21

DECEMEBER

The dealer 22

Vanity 22

The first fall of snow 23

The little bricklayer 24A snowball 25

The mistresses 26

A visit to the injured man 26

The little Florentine scribe 27

Will-power 30Gratitude 31

JANUARY

The supply teacher 32

Stardis library 32

The blacksmiths son 33

A happy afternoon 34

The funeral of Victor Emmanuel 34Franti if put out of class 35

The Sardinian Drummer-boy 36

Love your native land 39

Envy 40

Frantis mother 41

Hope 41

FEBRUARY

A well merited medal 43

Good intentions 44

The little engine 44

Arrogance 45Injured at work 46

The prisoner 46Papas nurse 48

The smithy 51

The little clown 52

The last day of carnival 54

The blind children 55The sick teacher 57

The street 58


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MARCH

Night school 59

The fight 59The boys family 60

Number 78 61The death of a child 62

On the eve of 14th March 62

Prize-giving 63

A quarrel 65From my sister 66

The spirit of Romagna 66The l ittle bricklayer is very ill 69

Count Cavour 70

APRIL

Spring 72King Umberto 72

The childrens house 74

Physical training 76

My fathers teacher 77

Convalescence 80Working-class friends 81

Garrones mother 82

Giuseppe Mazzini 82

Civil valour 83

MAY

The disable children 86Making sacrifice 87

The fire 87From the Apennines to the Andes 89

Summer 101Poetry 102

The deal and dumb girl 103

JUNE

Garibaldi 107

The army 107

Italy 108

Thirty-two degree 109My father 109

In the country 110

Night school prize-giving 111

The death of my teacher 112

Thanks 113Shipwreck 114

JULY

The last page of my mother 117

The examinations 117

The last examination 118

Goodbye 119


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OCTOBER

The first day of school

Monday, 17th

Today is the first day of school. Those three holiday months in the country went by like a dream!

This morning my mother took me to Baretti School to be registered in Standard 3. I was thinking of the

country and went reluctantly. All the streets were swarming with children. The two bookshops were

crowded with fathers and mothers buying satchels, schoolbags and exercise books, and so many people

crowded in front of the school that the caretaker and the policeman had difficulty in keeping the door clear.

Near the door I felt someone touch my shoulder: it was my teacher, always cheerful, with his red

ruffled hair, from Standard 2. 'Well, Enrico, are we to be separated for ever?' he said. I knew well enough

that we were. All the same those words hurt me.

We entered with difficulty. Ladies, gentlemen, local women, workmen, officials, grandmothers,

servants, all with one hand holding a child and the other holding a certificate of promotion, filled thevestibule and the stairs, making a noise as though going into a theatre. I saw again with pleasure that big

ground-floor hall with the doors of the seven classrooms in which I spent nearly all my days for three years.

There was a crowd and the mistresses were coming and going. My Standard lA teacher greeted mefrom the door of the classroom and said, 'Enrico, you are going to the floor above this year. I shan't even

see you pass by any more', and she looked at me sadly. The headmaster was surrounded by women who

were all anxious because there were no places left for their children, and it seemed to me that his beard was

a little whiter than it had been last year. I found some boys taller and bigger.

Downstairs, where the sorting out had already been done, there were some Standard lB children whodid not want to go into the classroom and who were behaving as obstinately as little donkeys. They had to

be pulled in by force. Some escaped from their desks; others seeing their parents leave, began to cry, so that

they had to come back and console them, or take them home, and the mistresses were in despair.

My little brother was put in Signorina Delcati's class, and I in Signor Perboni's, up on the first floor.

By ten o'clock we were all in class, fifty-four of us; only fifteen or sixteen of my class-mates from Standard

2, amongst whom was Derossi, the boy who always comes first. The school seemed so small and sad to me,

when I thought of the woods and mountains where I had spent the summer! Also I was thinking again of

my Standard 2 teacher, so nice, who always laughed with us, and so small that he seemed like ourcompanion, and it saddened me that I should not see him there any more, with his untidy red hair.

Our teacher is tall, beardless, with long grey hair, and he has a line across his forehead. He has a

strong voice and he looks keenly at us all, one after another, as if he would read our thoughts. And he never

laughs.

I said to myself, this is the first day. Nine months to go. So many exercises, so many monthly tests,

so much work! I really needed to be with my mother at home time, and I ran to kiss her hand. She said,

'Have courage, Enrico! We shall study together.' And I went home content. But I no longer have my teacher

with the kind, happy smile, and school no longer seems nice as it did at first.

Our teacherTuesday, 18th

I like my new teacher too, after this morning. At the beginning of school when he was already sitting

in his place, pupils from last year would appear at the class-room door to greet him. They looked in on their

way past and said, 'Good morning, sir', 'Good morning, Signor Perboni.' Some came in, touched his handand went away. You saw that they liked him very much and wished they could have come back to him. He

replied, 'Good morning', clasped the hands that were offered him, but did not look at anyone. At each

greeting he remained serious, with a line across his forehead, facing the window and looking at the roof of

the house opposite. Rather than being pleased by these greetings, he seemed to tolerate them. Then he

looked closely at us, one after another.


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While dictating he came down to move amongst the desks and, when he saw a boy whose face was

red with spots, he stopped dictating, held the boy's face between his hands and looked at him. Then he

asked him what was the matter and passed a hand over his forehead to see if he was hot.

Just then a boy behind him got up on his desk and began to play the fool. He suddenly turned round.

The boy immediately sat down and remained in his place with bowed head, awaiting punishment. Themaster put a hand on his head and said, 'Don't do that again' - nothing more. He went back to the master's

desk and finished dictating.Having finished, he looked at us for a moment in silence. Then he said very quietly in his strong but

pleasing voice, 'Listen, everyone. We have to spend a year together. Let us see that we spend it well. Study

and behave well. I have no family. You are my family. Last year I still had my mother, but she has died. I

am alone. You are all I have in the world, I have no other attachment, no concern but you. You must be my

children. I like you, you must like me. I do not want to have to punish anyone. Show me that you are good-

hearted boys. Our class will be a family, and you will be my pride and joy. I am not asking you for apromise in words. I am sure that in your hearts you have already said yes. And I thank you.'

At that moment the caretaker came in to say that it was time. We all left our desks very quietly. The

boy who had stood on his desk went up to the master and said in an unsteady voice, 'Sir, forgive me.' The

master kissed his forehead and said, 'Go, my son.'

An accident Friday, 21st

The year has started with an accident. Going to school this morning I was repeating the teacher's

words to my father when we saw that the street was full of people who were crowding round the school

door. My father said at once, 'An accident! The year is starting badly!'

With much difficulty we went in. The school hall was full of parents and boys. The teachers couldnot get into the classrooms and everyone was looking towards the headmaster's room. You could hear 'Poor

boy! Poor Robetti!' Over the heads of the crowd, at the back of the room full of people, could be seen a

policeman's helmet and the headmaster's bald head. Then a gentleman in a top hat entered and everybody

said, 'It's the doctor.'

My father asked a teacher, 'What has happened?'

'A wheel went over his foot,' he replied.

'It broke his foot,' said another.

He was a Standard 2 boy. Coming to school along Via Dora Grossa he had seen a child from lB runfrom his mother and fall in the middle of the street a few yards from an omnibus which was moving

towards him. He had run forward quickly, seized him and saved him. But since he had not been quick

enough in pulling back his own foot, the wheel of the omnibus had run over it. He is the son of an artillery

captain.

While they were telling us this someone came into the room like a madwoman, forcing a way

through the crowd. It was Robetti's mother, who had been sent for. Another woman ran towards her and

threw her arms round her neck, sobbing. It was the mother of the child who had been saved. The two of

them flung themselves into the room and we heard a desperate cry, 'Oh, my Giulio! My child!'

At that moment a carriage stopped in front of the door, and shortly afterwards the headmaster

appeared with the boy in his arms. His head rested on the headmaster's shoulder, his face was white and hiseyes were closed. Everyone was silent. You could hear the mother sobbing. The headmaster, pale, stopped

for a moment and raised the boy a little in his two arms to show him to the people. And then masters and

mistresses, parents and boys together murmured, 'Bravo, Robetti! Bravo, poor boy!' and threw kisses tohim. The mistresses and the boys who were near him kissed his hands and arms.

He opened his eyes and said, 'My satchel!'

Weeping, the mother of the little boy who had been saved showed it to him and said, 'I am carrying

it for you, dear angel, I am carrying it for you.' At the same time she was supporting the injured boy's

mother, who was covering her face with her hands.They went out, gently set the boy down in the carriage, and the carriage left. Then we all went back

into the school in silence.


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The boy from Calabria

Saturday, 22nd

Yesterday afternoon while the teacher was giving us news of poor Robetti, who will have to walk on

crutches for a while, the headmaster came in with a new pupil, a boy with a very brown complexion, black

hair, large dark eyes and thick eyebrows which meet. He was dressed entirely in dark clothes and had ablack leather belt round his waist.

When he had said something in the teacher's ear the headmaster left, leaving the boy with him. He

looked at us with those big dark eyes as though he was afraid. Then the teacher took his hand and said to

the class, 'You should be pleased. Today a young Italian is entering the school who was born in Reggio di

Calabria, more than five hundred miles from here. Cherish your brother who has come from so far away.

He was born in a glorious land which gave Italy illustrious men, and which gives her strong workers andbrave soldiers, in one of the most beautiful parts of our country, where there are great forests and great

mountains, inhabited by people of ability and courage. Cherish him so that he does not think about how far

he is from the town in which he was born. Make him see that an Italian boy, no matter which Italian school

he sets foot in, finds brothers there.'

Having said this he got up and on the wall-map of Italy he pointed to Reggio di Calabria. Then he

called out loudly, 'Ernesto Derossi!' ' - the one who is always top of the class. Derossi got up. 'Come here,'

said the teacher. Derossi left his desk and went to stand by the teacher's desk, facing the boy from Calabria.'As top of the class,' the teacher said to him, 'give the welcoming embrace in the name of the whole class toour new companion, the embrace by a son of Piedmont of a son of Calabria.'

Derossi embraced the Calabrian, saying in his clear voice, 'Welcome!' and the Calabrian impetuously

kissed him on both cheeks. Everybody clapped. 'Silence!' shouted the teacher. 'Do not clap in schoo1.' But

we could see that he was pleased. The Calabrian was pleased too. The teacher assigned him a place and

went with him to the desk. Then he said again, 'Remember now what I am telling you. So that this could

come about, that a Calabrian boy can be at home in Turin, and a boy from Turin can be at home in Reggio

di Calabria, our country struggled for fifty years, and thirty thousand Italians died. You must all respect and

love one another. If any of you should harm our companion because he was not born in our province, youwould make yourself for ever more unworthy of raising your eyes from the ground when the tricolour goes

by.' The Calabrian had only just sat down in his place when his neighbours gave him pens and a picture

and a boy in the end desk passed him a stamp from Sweden.

My class-matesTuesday, 25th

The boy who passed the stamp to the Calabrian and the one I like best of all is called Garrone.. He is

the biggest in the class, is nearly fourteen, has a big head and broad shoulders and he is good-hearted - you

see that when he smiles. But it seems as if he is always thoughtful, like a man.

I already know many of my class-mates. I like another one, too. He is called Coretti, he wears a

chocolate-coloured jersey and a cap made of cat's skin. He is always cheerful and is the son of a wood-seller who was a soldier in the War of '66, serving under Prince Umberto, and they say he has three medals.

There is little Nelli, a poor hunchback, delicate and thin-faced. One boy is very well dressed. He is

always removing small hairs from his clothes and is called Votini. In the desk in front of mine there is a

boy they call 'little bricklayer' because his father is a bricklayer. With a round face like an apple and a snubnose, he has a special gift: he can make a hare-nose, and everyone gets him to do his hare-nose and laughs.

He has a little cloth cap which he keeps rolled up in his pocket like a handkerchief.

Next to the little bricklayer there is Garoffi, a long thin fellow with a nose shaped like an owl's beak

and very small eyes, who is always swopping nibs, pictures and matchboxes, and who writes the lesson on

his fingernails so that he can secretly read it.

Then there is a young gentleman, Carlo Nobis, who seems very proud, and is between two boys Ilike: the son of a blacksmith, wrapped in a jacket which reaches his knees, pale so that he looks ill, and who

always seems afraid, and never laughs; and one with red hair who has a useless arm which he carries in a

sling - his father has gone to America and his mother goes round selling vegetables. And also a curious


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type, my neighbour on my left, Stardi, short and squat, with no neck, a grunter who speaks to no one and

who seems to understand little, but gives unblinking attention to the teacher, his brow furrowed, his teeth

clenched. And if anybody asks him a question while the teacher is speaking, the first and second times he

does not reply, the third time he kicks.

Near him there is the hard, sad face of a boy called Franti who had already been expelled fromanother school. There are also two brothers, dressed alike, who resemble one another perfectly and who

both wear a Calabrian hat with a pheasant's feather.But the handsomest of them all and the most intelligent, the boy who will certainly be top again this

year, is Derossi; and the teacher, who has already realized that, is always asking him the questions. All the

same I like Precossi the blacksmith's son very much, the one with the long jacket who looks ill. They say

that his father beats him. He is very timid and every time he asks a question or touches anyone he says

'Excuse me' and looks with his fine sad eyes. But Garrone is the biggest and kindest.

A noble actWednesday, 26th

This very morning Garrone showed his true character. When I entered the class-room, a little latebecause my lA teacher had stopped me to ask when she could come to our house to see us, the master was

not yet there and three or four boys were tormenting poor Crossi, the boy with red hair who has a witheredarm and whose mother sells vegetables. They were prodding him with rulers, throwing chestnut husks in

his face, calling him a cripple and a freak, mocking him with his arm in a sling. Alone at the end of the

bench, pale as death, he just listened, looking from one to another with eyes that begged them to leave him

alone. But they mocked him more and more, and he began to tremble and go red with anger.

Suddenly Franti, the one with the unpleasant face, got up on a desk and, pretending to carry two

baskets on his arms, imitated Crossi's mother when she used to come - for she is poorly now - to wait at thedoor for her son. Many started to laugh loudly. Then Crossi lost his temper, seized an ink-well and flung it

at his head with all his strength. But Franti moved smartly and the ink-well hit the master, who was just

coming in, on the chest.

Everyone scampered to his place and was silent, terrified.

The master, his face pale, went to his desk and in an angry voice demanded, 'Who did that?'

There was no reply.

The master shouted again, raising his voice, 'Who was it?'

Then Garrone, taking pity on poor Crossi, sprang to his feet and said firmly, 'I did it.'The teacher looked at him, looked at the astonished pupils, then said in a calm voice, 'It was not you.'

Then in a moment, 'The culprit will not be punished. Stand up!'

Crossi stood up and, weeping, said, 'They were hitting me and insulting me. I lost my temper. I

threw...'

'Sit down, said the teacher. 'Stand up those who provoked him.'

Four boys stood up, their heads bowed.

'You', said the teacher, 'have abused a companion who did nothing to provoke you, mocked someone

who is unfortunate, struck someone who is weak and cannot defend himself. You have committed one of

the basest acts. Nothing could be more shameful. Cowards!'

Having said that he went down amongst the benches to Garrone who had stood with lowered headand, putting a hand under his chin to raise his head, looked him in the eyes and said, 'You have a noble

soul.'

Garrone seized the moment to murmur something - I don't know what - in the master's ear, and he,turning to the four culprits, said abruptly, 'I pardon you.'

My teacher in lAThursday, 27th

My teacher kept her promise and came to our house today, just when I was setting out with my

mother to take some washing to a poor woman recommended in the Gazetta. We had not seen her in our


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house for a year. Everyone made her welcome. She is still the same little woman with the green veil round

her hat, well dressed and badly groomed, who hasn't time to attend to herself, but rather paler than last year,

with some grey hairs. And she coughs all the time.

My mother said to her, 'And your health, dear teacher?

You don't take proper care of yourself!'Oh, it is not important,' she replied with the smile which is both happy and melancholy.

You raise your voice too much,' my mother added. 'You take too much out of yourself with yourchildren.'

It is true; you hear her voice constantly. I remember when I was in her class - she talks all the time,

she talks so that the children will not be inattentive, and she does not remain sitting for a moment.

I was sure that she would come because she never forgets her pupils. She remembers their names for

years. On the days of the monthly tests she runs to ask the headmaster how many marks they have got. She

waits for them at the door and makes them show her their compositions to see if they have made progress.Many still come to see her when they are at the grammar school and already have long trousers and a

watch.

That day she was on her way back completely exhausted from the art gallery to which she had taken

her children as she did in past years, and as she used to take them every Thursday to a museum or gallery to

explain everything.

Poor teacher, she is thinner than ever. But she is always lively and becomes animated when she talks

about her class. She wanted to see again the bed she saw me in when I was very ill two years ago and

which is now my brother's. She looked at it for a while and was not able to speak.She had to leave soon to visit a boy in her class, a saddler's son who had German measles. She also

had a pile of papers to mark, work for the whole evening, and before nightfall she still had to give a privatelesson in arithmetic to a woman who kept a shop.

'Well, Enrico,' she said to me as she was leaving, 'are you still fond of your teacher now that you can

solve difficult problems and write long compositions?' She kissed me and said again at the bottom of the

stairs, 'you mustn't forget me, you know, Enrico!'

Oh, my good mistress! Never, never shall I forget you. Even when I am grown up I shall still

remember you and I shall go to visit you amongst your children. And every time I pass by a school and

hear a mistress's voice it will seem to me that I am hearing your voice and I shall think again of the two

years I spent in your class, where I learnt so many things, where I so often saw you ill and tired, but alwaysthoughtful, always kind, distressed when someone picked up a bad habit in writing, trembling when the

inspectors questioned us, happy when we did well, always kind and loving like a mother. Never, never shall

I forget you, my teacher.

In an attic

Friday, 28th

Yesterday evening my mother, my sister Silvia and I took the washing to the poor woman

recommended in the newspaper. I carried the bundle, Silvia had the newspaper with the initials of the name

and the address. We climbed up to the very top of a tall house and reached a long corridor with many doors

leading from it. My mother knocked at the end door and it was opened by a thin, fair woman, still young.

And suddenly it seemed to me I had seen her before, with that same dark blue scarf she had on her head.

'Are you the one in the newspaper?' asked my mother, giving the particulars.

'Yes, signora, I am the one.''Well, we've brought you a little washing.'

It seemed as if her thanks and blessings would never end. Meanwhile I saw a boy with his back

towards us kneeling in front of a chair in a comer of the dark, bare room, and he seemed to be writing. He

was indeed writing, with the paper on the chair and the ink-well on the floor.

How could he write like that in the dark? While I was asking myself this I recognized the red hair

and worn-out jacket of Crossi, the son of the vegetable-seller, the boy with the withered arm. I quietly told

my mother while the woman was putting the washing away.


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'Hush!' replied my mother. 'He might be ashamed to see you offering charity to his mother. Don't

call him.'

But at that moment Crossi turned round, I stood embarrassed, he smiled, and then my mother gave

me a push in his direction to greet him. I embraced him and he got up and took my hand.

'Here I am,' his mother was saying to mine meanwhile, 'alone with this boy. My husband has been inAmerica for six years and I am unwell, too, so that now I can't go round with the vegetables to earn those

few coppers. There isn't even a little table left for my poor Luigino to do his work on. When I had thebench here that's down by the main door, at least he could write on that. Now they've taken it from me.

There's not even a little light for him to study by without his ruining his eyes. It's thanks to the council, who

give him textbooks and exercise books, that I can send him to school. Poor Luigino, he studies so willingly!

And poor woman am I!'

My mother gave her all that she had in her purse, kissed the boy, and she was almost in tears when

we left. She had every reason to say to me, 'Just look at that poor boy and the difficult conditions he worksin, you who have everything and yet study seems hard to you! Ah, Enrico! There is more merit in one day

of his work than in a year of yours. It is to boys like him that the prizes should be given!'

SchoolFriday, 28th

Yes, dear Enrico, 'study seems hard to you', as your mother says. 1 still do not see you going to

school with the resolute spirit and the smiling face that 1 would like. You are still reluctant. But think of

this: imagine for a moment what a poor wretched thing your day would be if you did not go to school! With

hands joined in prayer, at the end of a week you would be pleading to go back, consumed by boredom and

shame, sick of your play and of your existence.

Everyone-everyone-studies today, Enrico. Think of the men who attend classes in the evening afterhaving worked all day; of the women and working girls who go to classes on Sundays after working all

week; of the soldiers who reach for their textbooks when they get back tired from manoeuvres. Think of the

dumb and blind children - even they study. And finally prisoners, even they learn to read and write.

In the morning when you go out think that at the same moment in this same town thirty thousand

other children are, like you, going to confine themselves in a room for three hours to study. What's more,

think of the countless children who at about the same time are going to school in every country. Picture

them in your imagination, travelling along the lanes of quiet villages, along the streets of noisy towns,

along the edge of the sea and lakes, under a burning sun or through mists, in boats in countries crossed bycanals, on horseback across the great plains, in sledges over the snow, through valleys and over hills,

through woods and across torrents, along lonely mountain paths, alone, in pairs, in groups, in long files, all

with their books under their arms, dressed in a thousand different ways, speaking a thousand languages,

from the furthermost school in Russia almost lost in the ice, to the most distant school in Arabia shaded by

palm trees; millions and millions of them, all going to learn, in a hundred different ways, the same things.

Imagine this vast swarm of children from a hundred nations, of which you form a part, and think: if

this movement were to stop, humanity would lapse into barbarism; this movement is the progress, the hope

and the glory of the world. Courage, then, little soldier in the immense army. Your books are your arms,

your class is your platoon, the battlefield is the whole earth, and the victory is human civilization. Do not

be a cowardly soldier, Enrico.

Father

THE LITTLE PADUAN PATRIOTThe monthly story

No, I shall not be a cowardly soldier, but I would go a lot more willingly to school if every day the

teacher told us a story like the one h!' told us this morning. Every month, he said, he will tell us one. It will

be written down and it will always be a true story of a boy's noble deed. This one is called 'The Little

Paduan Patriot'. Here it is.


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A French steamer left Barcelona, a town in Spain, for Genoa. On board were Frenchmen, Italians,

Spaniards and Swiss. Amongst them was an eleven-year-old boy, badly dressed and alone, who always

kept himself apart like an untamed animal, looking at everyone with hostile eyes. And he had good reason

to look at everyone like that.

Two years earlier his father and mother, peasants from the countryside near Padua, had sold him tothe leader of a troop of acrobats who, after teaching him tricks by means of blows, kicks and hunger, took

him across France to Spain, constantly beating him and never satisfying his hunger.At Barcelona, unable to endure the blows and the hunger any longer and reduced to a pitiful

condition, he escaped from his captor and ran for protection to the Italian consul. Moved to pity, the consul

put him aboard the steamer and gave him a letter for the chief of police at Genoa, who was to return him to

his parents, the parents who had sold him like an animal.

The poor boy was ragged and sickly. They had given him a second-class cabin. Everybody stared at

him and some people asked him questions, but he never replied and it seemed as if he hated and despisedeveryone, so much had he been embittered and withered by starvation and blows.

Nevertheless three travellers, persisting with their questions, managed to make him loosen his

tongue and in a few words, a mixture of Venetian dialect, Spanish and French, he told his story. The three

travellers were not Italian but they understood and, moved partly by pity and partly by wine, they gave him

some money, joking with him and leading him on so that he would tell more. Some ladies entered the room

at that moment. So, to draw attention to themselves, the three gave him some more money, shouting, 'Catch

that! And that!', making the coins clatter on the table.

The boy put them all in his pocket, expressing his thanks in a low voice, in his reluctant way, but forthe first time there was a warm smile on his face.

He climbed into his berth, drew the curtain and lay still thinking about his affairs. With that moneyhe would be able to taste a few mouthfuls on board, after two years of being short of bread. He would be

able to buy himself a jacket as soon as he disembarked at Genoa after two years going about dressed in

rags. And if he took some home, he could ensure for himself a rather more human welcome from his father

and mother than the one he would have received if he had arrived with empty pockets.

That money was a small fortune to him. Comforted, he thought of these things behind the curtain of

his cabin while the three travellers talked, sitting round the table in the middle of the second-class dining-

room.

They were drinking and talking about their journeys and the countries they had seen and, as storyfollowed story, they came to talk about Italy. One began to complain about the inns, another about the

railways, and then, egging each other on, they began to criticize everything. One would have preferred to

travel in Lapland; another said that he had found only cheats and brigands; the third said that Italianworkmen could not read.

'An ignorant people,' repeated the first. 'Dirty,' added the second.

'They are. . .' began the third. He was going to say thieves, but he did not finish the word.

A shower of coins fell on their heads and shoulders and landed on the table and on the floor with a

dreadful clatter. Furious, all three rose to their feet, looking upwards, and got another handful of coins intheir faces.

'Take your money back,' the boy said contemptuously, appearing from behind the curtain of his

berth. 'I do not accept charity from those who insult my country.'


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NOVEMBER

The chimney-sweepTuesday, 1st

Yesterday afternoon I went to the girls' school, which is next to ours, to give the story of the boy

from Padua to Silvia's teacher who wanted to read it. There are seven hundred girls there! When I arrived

they were already starting to leave school and everyone was in high spirits because they were breaking up

for All Saints' Day and All Souls' Day. And there I saw a heart-warming incident.

Facing the school gates but on the other side of the road, with his arm against the wall and hisforehead resting on his arm, was a chimney-sweep, a very small boy, his face covered with soot. He had his

sack and scraper with him and he was sobbing uncontrollably.Two or three girls from Standard 2 went up to him and said, 'Why are you crying like that?'

He did not reply, but continued to cry.

'But what is the matter? Why are you crying?' the girls asked him again.

Then he looked up - it was a child's face - and still weeping said that he had been in some houses to

sweep the chimneys and had earned thirty soldi. But he had lost them. They had fallen through a hole in his

pocket - he showed them the hole and he dared not return home without the money.

'The master hits me,' he said, sobbing, and let his head fall on his arm again in despair.The girls stood looking at him, thoughtfully. Meanwhile some more girls came, big and small, poor

and better off, with their satchels under their arms, and a big girl with a blue feather in her hat took two

soldi out of her pocket and said, 'I only have two soldi: Let's make a collection.'

'I have two soldi as well,' said another, dressed in red. 'We shall easily get thirty between us.'

Then they began to call out: 'Amalia! Luigia! Anina! A soldi! Who has some soldi? Pass the soldi

here!'

Some had soldi to buy flowers or exercise books and they gave them. Some smaller ones gave

centesimi. The girl with the blue feather collected them all and counted aloud, 'Eight, ten, fifteen!'

They needed more.Then a girl bigger than any of them, who looked like a young teacher, came along and gave half a

lira, and everyone thanked her.

They still needed five soldi.

'Some Standard 4 girls are coming and they will have some,' a girl said.The girls arrived and the coins came in thick and fast.

Everybody crowded round. It was good to see the poor chimney-sweep amongst those many-

coloured children's frocks, those bunches of feathers, ribbons and curls. They already had thirty soldi and

more was coming in and the smallest girls, who had no money, pushed their way through to offer bunchesof flowers so that they too could give something.

Suddenly the caretaker appeared, shouting, 'The headmistress!' The girls scattered in all directionslike a flock of sparrows.

Alone then in the middle of the road was the little chimney-weep, wiping his eyes, happy now, his

hands full of soldi. And there were flowers in the buttonholes of his coat, in his pockets and in his hat. He

was completely smothered in flowers. There were even flowers on the ground, at his feet.

All Souls' DayWednesday, 2nd

This day is consecrated to remembrance of the dead. Do you know, Enrico, which of thedead you boys should think about today?

Those who died for you, for boys and girls and little children. So many died, so many still die! Do

you ever think how many fathers wore themselves out with work, how many mothers went to an early

grave worn out by the sufferings to which they condemned themselves, in order to support their children?

Do you know how many men plunged a knife in their heart driven to despair by the sight of their


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children in want or how many women drowned themselves or died of a broken heart or went out of their

mind after losing a little child?

Think of them all on this day, Enrico. Think of all the teachers who have died young, worn out by

their labours at school for love of the children they could not bring themselves to leave. Think of the

doctors who cared for children with selfless courage and died of infectious diseases. Think of all those in

shipwrecks, in fires, in famine, in moments of great danger who gave to a child the last piece of bread, the

last life saving piece of driftwood, the last rope to escape from the flames, and died content that theirsacrifice had saved the life of a young innocent.

They are without number, Enrico, these souls. Every cemetery is the resting-place of hundreds of

these saintly people who, if they were able to rise for a moment from the grave, could cry out the name of a

child for whom they had sacrificed the pleasures of youth, the peace of old age, affection, intelligence, life.

Twenty-year-old brides, men at the height of their powers, old ladies in their eighties, young men - brave

and unknown martyrs to childhood - so great, so noble that the earth does not provide flowers enough for

their graves.

So much are you loved, children! Today think of these dead with gratitude and you will be better

young people and care more for those who love and toil for you, dear fortunate son of mine who on this All

Souls' Day has still no one to mourn!

Mother

My friend GarroneFriday, 4th

There were only two days of holiday but to me it seemed a long time not to see Garrone. The more I

know him the more I like him, and that is the experience of everyone, except the bullies, who would notagree because he does not allow them to bully. Every time a big boy raises his hand against a little boy, the

little one shouts 'Garrone!' and the big boy desists.

His father is a railway engine driver. He started school late because he was unwell for two years. He

is the tallest and strongest boy in the class and he can lift a desk with one hand. He is always eating and he

is kind. Whatever you ask him for, pencil, rubber, a piece of paper, penknife, he will lend or give you

everything. He does not talk or laugh in school, he always sits still in the desk - which is too small for him -

his back bent and his big head hunched between his shoulders, and when I look at him he smiles at me, hiseyes half-closed as though to say, 'Well, Enrico - friends, aren't we?'

He makes me laugh. Tall and big, his jacket, trousers and sleeves all too narrow and short, a hat that

won't stay on his head, close-cropped hair, big shoes, and a tie always twisted like string. Dear old Garrone,

one look in his face is enough to inspire affection. All the smallest boys would like to sit near him.

He is good at arithmetic. He carries his books tied together with a red leather strap. He has a knife

with a mother-of-pearl handle that he found last year on the parade-ground, and one day he cut his finger

down to the bone. But no one at school knew and he did not say a word about it at home so as not to alarm

his parents.

Whatever he allows himself to say in jest is never cruel; but woe betide anyone who says 'That's nottrue' when he has said something. His eyes flash and he pounds the desk with his fist fit to break it.

On Saturday morning he gave a soldo to a boy in lA who was crying in the street because he had lostone and could not buy an exercise book.

For three days he has been working on an eight-page letter with decorations in the margins done inpen and ink for his mother's saint's day. She often comes to meet him. She is tall .lI1d big like him, and

nice.

The master looks at him all the time and each time he passes him lays a caressing hand on his neck

as on the neck of a quiet young bull.

I like him very much. When I grasp his big hand, which is like a man's hand, in mine, I am happy. I

know that he would risk his life to save a friend, that he would give his life in his defence. This you seeclearly in his eyes. And although with that great voice of his he seems always to be grumbling, you sense

that it is a voice which comes from a gentle heart.


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The coalman and the gentleman

Monday, 7th

Garrone would certainly never have said what Carlo Nobis said to Betti yesterday morning.

Carlo Nobis is proud because his father is a fine gentleman, a tall man with a black beard and grave

in manner, who comes with his son to school nearly every morning.Yesterday morning Nobis was arguing with Betti, one of the smallest boys, the son of a coalman,

and not knowing what to reply, because he was in the wrong, he shouted, 'Your father looks like a

scarecrow.'

Betti blushed to the roots of his hair. He said nothing, but tears came to his eyes. At home he

repeated the words to his father. And so it was that the coalman, a small man, grimy from his work,

appeared at afternoon school, holding the boy's hand, to complain to the teacher.Everyone was quiet while he made his complaint to the master. Nobis's father was taking his son's

cloak off by the outside door, as he usually did. Hearing his name spoken he came in and asked for an

explanation.

'It concerns this workman', replied the master, 'who has come to complain because your son Carlo

said to his boy, "Your father looks like a scarecrow.'''

Nobis's father frowned and reddened a little. Then he asked his son, 'Did you say those words?'

His son, standing in the middle of the schoolroom with lowered head, in front of little Betti, did notreply.

Then his father took him by the arm, pushed him further forward to face Betti so that they were

almost touching and said to him, 'Ask him to forgive you.'

The coalman wanted to intervene, saying, 'No, no!' But the gentleman did not heed him and said

again to his son, 'Ask him to forgive you. Repeat my words. I ask your forgiveness for the hurtful, foolish

and rude word I said about your father whose hand my father would be proud to shake.'

Then the gentleman offered his hand to the coalman who shook it vigorously and suddenly thrust his

son into Carlo Nobis's arms.

'Do me the favour of putting them together,' the gentleman said to the master. The master put Betti inNobis's desk. When this had been done Nobis's father bade farewell and left.

The coalman remained a few moments in thought, looking at the two boys sitting next to one

another. Then he went up to the desk and looked at Nobis with a mixture of affection and sorrow as if he

would have liked to say something to him. But he said nothing. He put out his hand to caress him but darednot do even that and only stroked his forehead lightly with his great fingers. Then he went to the door and

after turning round to look at them once more he disappeared.

'Remember well what you have seen, boys,' said the master. 'This is the best lesson of the year.'

My young brother's teacher

Thursday, 10th

The coalman's son used to be in Signora Delcati's class. She lame today to visit my young brother

who is unwell and made us laugh when she told us that two years ago the boy's mother brought her an

apronful of coal to thank her for having given her son the merit medal. She was quite persistent, poor

woman. She did not want to take the coal back home and was almost in tears when she had to return withher apron still full. She also told us about another good woman who brought her a very heavy bunch of

flowers. Inside it was a little hoard of coins. We were very amused when we heard this and as a result my

brother swallowed the medicine which he hadn't wanted to take at first.

How much patience they must have with those lB children, all toothless like old people, and unable

to pronounce their r's and s's. One has a cough, another's nose is bleeding, another has lost his clogs under

the bench, someone is whimpering because he has pricked himself with his pen, another is crying becausehe has bought book one instead of book two.

Fifty in a class, none of them knowing anything, with those butter-fingers, and they all have to be

taught to read and write.


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In their pockets they have little pieces of liquorice, buttons, bottle-stoppers, stones, all kinds of small

objects, and sometimes the mistress has to search through them; but they hide things, even in their shoes.

They are not attentive. If a big fly comes in through the window the whole place is in an uproar. In

summer they bring flowers and leaves into school, and cockchafers which fly round in circles or fall into

ink-wells and then make ink marks on exercise books.The mistress must be a mother to them, help them to dress, bandage cut fingers, pick up fallen caps,

must see that they do not take the wrong coats, and so avoid weeping and complaining. Poor teacher!And then the mothers' complaints. How can my child have lost his pen? How is it that mine learns

nothing? Why do you never mention my child who is so clever? Why don't you have that nail which tore

my Piero's trousers taken out of the bench?

Sometimes my brother's teacher gets angry with the children and when she is at her wit's end she

bites her finger to hold herself back from smacking them. She loses her patience, but then she is sorry and

caresses the child she has scolded. She sends a rascal home from school, but holds back her tears and losesher temper with the parents who make their children do without meals as a punishment.

Signorina Delcati is young and tall, dark, restless, well dressed, and she moves like a released spring.

She is easily affected and speaks with great tenderness.

'But at any rate, the children become fond of you?' my mother said to her.

'Many do, yes,' she replied, 'but after the end of the year most of them do not look at us any more.

When they have men teachers they are half-ashamed of having been with us, with a mistress. After two

years of caring, when you have loved a child so much, it is sad to part with him, but you say, "Oh, I'm sure

of him, he will like me." But the holidays are over you are back in school, you meet him - oh, my child!-and he looks the other way.' The teacher paused. Then she said, 'But you won't do that, dear.' And getting

up, her eyes moist, she kissed my brother. 'You won't look the other way, will you? You won't disown yourpoor friend.'

My motherThursday, 10th

In the presence of your brother's teacher you lacked respect for your mother! Let this never happen

again, Enrico, never again! Your irreverent words pierced my heart like a steel blade.

I thought of your mother when a few years ago she stayed for a whole night bent over your little bed

to listen to your breathing, weeping tears of anguish, her teeth chattering with terror because she feared she

might lose you, and I was afraid she would lose her reason. These thoughts made me regard you withdisgust.

You, offend your mother! Your mother, who would give a year of happiness to spare you an hour of

sorrow, who would beg for you, who would give her life to save yours! Think, Enrico. Fix this firmly in

your mind. Accept that you are destined to live through many terrible days. The most terrible f If them all

will be the day on which you lose your mother.

A thousand times, Enrico, when you are a man, strong and with experience of life's struggles, you

will call upon her, overcome by a powerful desire to hear her voice again for a moment, to see again her

arms open so that you can throw yourself into them, weeping like a poor child who is without protection

and comfortless. How you will remember, then, all the sorrow you have caused her and with what remorse

you will atone for it, unhappy wretch!Do not expect peace of mind in life if you have caused your mother distress. You will be penitent,

you will ask for her forgiveness, you will venerate her memory in vain. Your conscience will give you no

peace. That sweet and gentle image will, for you, always carry an expression of sorrow and reproof whichwill torture your soul.

Oh, take heed, Enrico! This is the most sacred of human affections and wretched is he who tramples

on it. The assassin who respects his mother still has something honourable and decent in his heart. The

most illustrious of men is contemptible if he offends her and causes her sorrow.

May a harsh word for the one who gave you life never escape your lips again. If it does, let it not befear of your father but an impulse from your soul which throws you at her feet to beg for a kiss of

forgiveness which will wipe from your brow the mark of ingratitude. I love you, my son. You are the


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dearest hope in my life, but I would rather see you dead than ungrateful to your mother. Enough. For a little

while do not offer me your caresses, for I could not return them from my heart.

Father

My school-friend Coretti

Sunday, 13th

My father forgave me but I was still rather sad. Then my mother sent me for a walk along the main

street with the porter's son, who is a big boy. Half-way along the street, passing by a cart which was

standing outside a shop, I heard my name called. I turned round.It was my school-friend Coretti, sweating and cheerful in his chocolate-coloured jersey and cat's skin

cap, with a big load of firewood on his back. A man standing on the cart handed him firewood, an armful at

a time. He carried it into his father's shop, where he quickly stacked it.

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

'Can't you see?' he replied, holding out his arms to take some firewood. 'I'm learning my homework.'

I laughed, but he was serious. He took an armful of firewood and then began to repeat quickly. 'The

accidence of verbs depends on ... depends on number... depends on number and person. . . .'And then throwing down the wood and stacking it, 'Depends on the time... depends on the time of

the action.'

Then turning to the cart to take another armful, 'Depends on the mood in which the action is

described.'

It was our grammar lesson for the next day.

'What do you expect?' he said. 'I'm putting the time to good use. My father has gone off on a job with

the boy who works for him. My mother is ill. It's up to me to unload it. Meanwhile I'm learning the

grammar. It's difficult today. I haven't managed to get it into my head. My father said he'll he here at seven

o'clock to give you the money,' he said then to I he man with the cart.The cart left. 'Come in the shop for a minute,' Coretti said to me. I went in. It was a big room full of

firewood and bundles of sticks and on one side there was a weighing-machine.

'It's a hard grind today, I assure you,' Coretti went on. 'I have to do the work in fits and starts. I was

writing the sentences and someone came in to buy. I started to write again and the cart arrived. I've alreadybeen twice this morning to the wood market in Piazza Venezia. I have no feeling in my legs now and my

hands are swollen. I'd be in a mess if I had to do some drawing!' All the while, he swept up the dry leaves

and I wigs which covered the brick floor.

'But where do you do your homework, Coretti?' I asked him.

'Certainly not here,' he replied. 'Come and see.'

He led me in to a little room at the back of the shop which served as a kitchen and dining-room witha table in one corner on which there were textbooks and exercise books and the unfinished work.

'Just as I thought,' he said. 'I've left the second answer unfinished. "With leather we make shoes,

belts" Now I can add "suitcases".' He took his pen and started to write in his beautiful handwriting.

'Is anyone there?' came a call from the shop at that moment. It was a woman who wanted to buy

some kindling wood.

'Here I am,' replied Coretti, and he rushed out, weighed the wood, took the money, ran to the corner

to record the sale on a notepad and returned to his work saying, 'Let's see if I can manage to finish the

sentence.' And he wrote, travelling' bags, soldiers' kitbags.'Oh! The wretched coffee is boiling over!' he suddenly exclaimed and ran to the stove to lift the

coffee-pot off the fire. 'It's coffee for Mother,' he said. 'I really must learn how to make it. Wait a moment

till we take it to her, then she will see you. That will please her. She's been in bed for a week. The

accidence of verbs! I always burn my fingers on that coffeepot. What can I put after soldiers' kitbags?

Something else is needed and I can't think of anything. Let's go to Mother.'

He opened a door and we went into another small room. There was Coretti's mother in a big bed

with a white handkerchief round her head.

'Here's the coffee, Mother,' said Coretti, handing her the cup. 'This is a friend from school.'


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'Oh, I'm so pleased,' she said to me. 'You are visiting the sick, aren't you?'

Meanwhile Coretti adjusted the pillows behind his mother's shoulders, rearranged the bedspread,

poked the fire and shooed the cat off the chest of drawers. Then, taking back the cup, he asked, 'Is there

anything else you want, Mother? Have you taken the two spoonfuls of syrup? When it's all finished I'll run

over to the chemist's. The wood is unloaded. At four o'clock I'll put the meat on the stove as you said, andwhen the butter woman passes I'll give her those eight soldi. Everything will be all right, don't think about

it.' 'Thank you, dear,' she relied. 'Poor boy! He thinks of everything. '

She wanted me to take a sweet and then Coretti showed me a little picture, a photograph of his father

in soldier's uniform with the medal for valour which he won in '66 when he was serving with Prince

Umberto. He had the same face as his son, the same lively eyes and happy smile.

We went back to the kitchen. 'I've thought of something,' Coretti said, and in his exercise book he

wrote: We also make horses' harness. 'I'll do the rest this evening; I shall be up late. Lucky you with time tostudy and to go for a walk!'

Still cheerful and active, back in the shop he began to put pieces of wood on a stand to saw them in

half and he said, 'This is gymnastics! Different from arms forward! I want my father to find all this wood

sawn up when he gets back home. He will be pleased. The trouble is that after sawing I make t's and l's that

look like snakes, as the teacher says. What can I do about it? I'll tell him that I've had to use my arms. The

important thing is that Mother should get better soon, definitely, She has improved today, thank goodness.

I'll study the grammar first thing tomorrow morning. Oh! There's the cart with the logs! So, to work.'

A cart loaded with logs stopped in front of the shop. Coretti ran outside to speak to the man and thencame back. 'I can't stay with you now,' he said, 'so goodbye till tomorrow. It was a good idea to come to see

me. Have a good walk! Lucky you.' He shook my hand, ran to take the first log and once again started torush between cart and shop, his face fresh as a rose under his cat's skin cap, and so lively that it was good to

see him.

Lucky you, he said to me. No, Coretti, no. You are the more fortunate. You, because you study and

work harder, because you are more useful to your father and mother, because you are nobler, a hundred

times more noble and worthy than I, my dear companion.

The headmasterFriday, 18th

Coretti was happy this morning because his second-year master, Signor Coatti, came to help with themonthly examination. Signor Coatti is a large man with a big head of curly hair, a big black beard, two big

dark eyes and a voice like a trombone. He is always threatening the boys that he will beat them or take

them by the scruff of the neck to the police station, and he makes fearful grimaces. But he never punishes

anyone and in fact he is always smiling secretly under his beard.

There are eight masters including Signor Coatti, and a supply teacher who is small and beardless and

seems very young.

here is a fourth-year master who is lame and wrapped up in a big woollen scarf. He is always full of

aches and pains which go back to the time when he was a country schoolmaster in a damp building with

water trickling down the walls. Another fourth-year master is old and white-haired and he has been a

teacher of the blind. One of them is well dressed, wears spectacles and has a short fair moustache. We callhim the little lawyer because while he was teaching he studied to be a lawyer and took a degree; he also

wrote a book on how to teach writing. On the other hand, the one who teaches gymnastics is a military

man. He was one of Garibaldi's soldiers and on his neck he has the scar of a sabre wound he sustained atthe Battle of Milazzo.

Then there is the headmaster. He is tall and bald, with gold-rimmed spectacles and a grey beard

which comes down to his chest. He is dressed completely in black and his jacket is buttoned up to his chin.

He is good with boys, for when they have to report to his study for a reprimand and they go in trembling,

he does not scold them but takes them by the hand, puts before them so many reasons why they should notbehave as they have, why they must repent and promise to be good, and he speaks to them so nicely and in

such a kind voice that they all emerge with red eyes, more embarrassed than if he had punished them.


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Poor headmaster, he is always the first at his post in the morning in time for the arrival of the pupils

and to be there if parents want to speak to him, and when the teachers are already on their way home he

walks round the school once more to see that the boys are not chasing one another under carriages or

staying in the streets to stand on their hands or fill satchels with sand or pebbles. And every time that tall,

dark figure appears at a street corner crowds of boys scatter in all directions, leaving their games and theirmarbles, while from a distance, with finger raised, he warns them in his sad, kind way.

My mother says that no one has seen him laugh since the death of his son who was a volunteer in thearmy, and he always has his picture where he can see it on the desk in the headmaster's study. He did not

want to go on after that misfortune and has already written out his request to the council for retirement, and

always keeps it on his desk, each day putting off sending it because it would grieve him to leave I he boys.

But the other day it seemed as if he had made up his mind and my father who was in his study was

saying 'What a pity it I" that you are leaving, headmaster!' when a man entered to register a boy who was

being transferred from another school 10 ours because he had moved house. When he saw the boy theheadmaster seemed astonished, glanced at him and glanced at the picture on his desk. He turned to look at

the boy, drew him between his knees and raised his face. The boy exactly resembled his dead son. The

headmaster said, 'Very well', and made the registration. He said goodbye to the father and son and remained

thoughtful.

'What a pity it is that you are leaving!' repeated my father. The headmaster picked up his request for

retirement, tore it in half, and said, 'I am staying.'

The soldiersTuesday, 22nd

His son was a volunteer in the army when he died. So the headmaster always goes on to the street to

watch soldiers pass by, and we go out too. Yesterday an infantry regiment went by and fifty boys prancedalongside the band, singing and beating time on bags and satchels with their rulers.

We stood in a group on the pavement to watch: Garrone, squeezed into his small clothes, biting into

a big piece of bread; Votini, the well-dressed one who is constantly removing hairs from his clothing;

Precossi, the blacksmith's son, in his father's jacket; the Calabrian; the little bricklayer; the red-headed

Crossi; Franti with the brazen face; and also Robetti, the son of the artillery captain, the boy who saved a

child from an omnibus and now walks on crutches.

Franti laughed in the face of a soldier who limped. At the same moment he felt a man's hand on his

shoulder. He turned round. It was the headmaster.'Listen,' the headmaster said to him. 'To sneer at a soldier when he is on parade and can neither

protect himself nor reply is like insulting a bound man: it is a cowardly act.' Franti looked small.

The soldiers marched by four abreast, sweating and dusty, their rifles shining in the sun.

The headmaster said, 'Boys, you should respect soldiers. They are our defenders who will go out and

give their lives for us if tomorrow a foreign army threatens our country. They are boys like you. They are

only a few years older than you, there are poor and rich amongst them as there are amongst you, they go to

school like you, and they come from all parts of Italy. See if you can recognize them by their looks. There

go Sicilians, Sardinians, Neapolitans and Lombards. This is an old regiment, one of those which fought in

1848. The soldiers are not the same ones, but the lag is still the same. How many had already died for our

country under that flag twenty years before you were born!''Here it is,' said Garrone. And indeed the flag could be seen, quite near, in the van, raised above the

soldiers' heads.

'There is something you could do, boys,' said the headmaster. 'Give your scholars' salute, hand toforehead, when the tricolour passes.'

The flag, carried by an officer, passed in front of us. It was torn and faded, and honours hung from

the shaft. Together we raised our hands in salute. The officer looked at us. He smiled and returned our

salute.

'Good lads!' someone said behind us. We turned to look. It was an old man who was wearing in hisbuttonhole the blue ribbon of the Crimean campaign - a retired officer. 'Good lads!' he said. 'That was a fine

thing you did.'


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Meanwhile the regimental band was turning at the end of the street surrounded by a crowd of boys

and, like a song of war, a hundred happy cries accompanied the trumpet notes. 'Good lads!' the old officer

repeated, looking at us. 'He who respects the flag when he is small will know how to defend it when he is

grown up.'

Nelli's protector Wednesday, 23rd

Nelli too watched the soldiers yesterday, poor little hunchback, but he seemed to be thinking, I shall

never be able to be II soldier.

He is a nice boy and he does his schoolwork. But he is very thin and pale, and his breathing is

laboured. He always wears II long smock of shiny black material. His mother is a small, 1.lir woman

dressed in black. She always comes for him at home-time because he doesn't go out in the usual scramble

with all the others. She greets him with a caress.

During his first days at school a lot of boys mocked him because he has the misfortune to be a

hunchback, and hit his back with their bags. But he never fought back and he never said anything to his

mother, so as not to sadden her with the knowledge that her son was the butt of his school-fellows. Theysneered at him. He said nothing but rested his forehead on the desk and wept.

But one morning Garrone jumped up and said, 'The first person who touches Nelli, I'll give him aclout that'll send him -limning.' Franti ignored this, the clout was administered, our friend did spin round

and from that moment no one touched Nelli any more.

The master put him next to Garrone, in the same desk. They became friends. Nelli has become very

fond of Garrone. He has hardly got into school before he looks to see if Garrone is there. He never leaves

without saying, 'Goodbye, Garrone', and Garrone behaves in the same way towards him. When Nelli lets

his pen or a book fall under the desk, Garrone bends down and hands him the book or pen. Then he helpshim to pack his things in his bag and to get into his overcoat. Because of this Nelli likes him very much, is

constantly looking at him and when the master praises him he is as happy as if he himself had been praised.

In the end Nelli must have told his mother everything, from the sneers of the first days, how they

made him suffer, and then about the school-friend who defended him and of whom he had become fond,

for here is what happened this morning.

Half an hour before the end of school, the master told me to take the syllabus of the lesson to the

headmaster, and I was in the office when a fair-haired woman dressed in black came in. She was Nelli's

mother and she said, 'Headmaster, is there a boy called Garrone in my son's class?''There is,' replied the headmaster.

'Will you be so kind as to have him come here for a moment? I have something to say to him.'

The headmaster called the caretaker, sent him into the classroom and a minute later there was

Garrone in the doorway, with his big close-cropped head, completely taken by surprise. As soon as she saw

him the woman ran to him, put her hands on his shoulders and kissed his head many times, saying, 'Are you

my son's friend, Garrone, my poor child's protector? Are you, dear good boy, are you?'

Then she quickly searched through her pockets and purse. Finding nothing suitable, she pulled a

small cross and chain from her neck and put it round Garrone's neck under his tie and said to him, 'Take it.

Wear it to remember me, dear boy, to remember Nelli's mother who thanks you and blesses you.'

Top of the class Friday, 25th

Garrone inspires everyone's affection, Derossi their admiration. He took first prize and he will also

be top this year. No one can compete with him and everybody recognizes his superiority in all subjects. He

is top in arithmetic, grammar, composition and drawing. He understands everything instantly, he has a

remarkable memory, he succeeds effortlessly in everything, and it seems as if study is a game to him.

The master said to him yesterday, 'God has given you great gifts. For your part, you must be sure not

to waste them.' He is also tall and handsome with a crown of fair curls and so agile that he can put one

hand on a desk and vault over it, and he already knows how to fence.


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He is twelve years old and the son of a businessman. He is always dressed in dark-blue clothes with

gilt buttons. He is always alert and cheerful, polite to everyone, and he helps as many people as he can in

the examinations. No one has ever dared to be rude or say an unpleasant word to him. Only Nobis and

Franti look askance at him and Votini's eyes show envy, but he does not even notice. Everyone gives him a

smile and takes his hand or arm when he goes round the class, in his own pleasant way, collecting writtenwork.

He gives away illustrated papers and pictures, all that he has been give at home. For the Calabrian hemade a small map of Calabria. He gives everything away light-heartedly, Indiscriminately, without

favouritism, like a great gentleman.

It is impossible not to envy him, not to feel that one comes .second-best to him in everything. Oh,

yes! I too, like Votini, rl1vy him. I feel bitter, almost spiteful sometimes when I am struggling with my

homework and it occurs to me that he will already have done his, very well indeed, and without effort.

But back at school there he is, so handsome, laughing, triumphant, and I hear him answer themaster's questions clearly and confidently and I see how courteous he is and how everybody likes him -

then all bitterness and spite vanish from my heart and I am ashamed of having harboured such feelings. I

would like to be near him always. I would like to be able to do all my lessons with him. His presence and

his voice give me courage, the will to work, happiness and pleasure.

The master gave him the monthly story to copy out, the one he is going to read tomorrow, 'The Little

Lombard Sentry'. He was copying it out this morning and he was moved by that heroic act. His face was

full of feeling, his eyes moist, his lips trembling. I watched him. How handsome and noble he was! How I

would have liked to look at him face to face and say, frankly, 'Derossi, in all respects you are my superior!In comparison with me, you are a man! I respect and admire you!'

THE LITTLE LOMBARD SENTRYThe monthly story

On a beautiful June morning in 1859, a few days after the French and Italian victory over the

Austrians at the Battle of Solferino and San Martino in the war for the liberation of Lombardy, a smalltroop of cavalry from Saluzzo moved slowly along a lonely path towards the enemy, carefully

reconnoitring the countryside. An officer and a sergeant led the troop. Everyone looked intently straight

ahead into the distance, silent, expecting the uniforms of the enemy outposts to become visible amongst the

trees at any moment.And so they came to a country cottage encircled by ash trees; in front of it, all alone, there was a boy

about twelve years old peeling a small branch with a knife to make himself a walking-stick. A large

tricolour hung from a window, but there was no one inside the house. After putting out their flag, the

peasants had fled, for fear of the Austrians.

As soon as he saw the cavalry the boy threw down his stick and took off his cap. He was a fine-

looking lad with an eager manner, He had large blue eyes and long fair hair. He was in shirt-sleeves and hischest was bare

'What are you doing here?' asked the officer, reining in his horse. 'Why haven't you fled with your

family?'

'I haven't got a family,' the boy replied, 'I'm a foundling. 1 do a bit of work for everybody. 1 stayed

here to see the war.'

'Have you seen any Austrians pass?'

'No, not for three days.'

The officer remained awhile in thought; then he dismounted and, leaving the soldiers facing in thedirection of the enemy, he entered the house and went up to the roof. The house was low. From the roof he

could see only a small stretch of the countryside. 'Got to climb the trees,' said the officer, and he went

down.

Immediately in front of the barnyard was a very tall, slender ash tree, its highest branches swaying

against the blue sky. The officer remained for a moment in thought, his eyes moving between tree and

soldiers. Then suddenly he spoke to the boy.

'You, you rascal! Have you got good eyesight?'

'Me?' the boy replied. 'I could see a little sparrow more than a mile away..'


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'Would you be strong enough to climb to the top of that tree?'

'Top of that tree? Me? 1 could get up there in half a minute.'

'And would you be able to tell me what you can see from up there, II there are Austrian soldiers over

there, clouds of dust, guns sparkling in the sun, horses?'

'Certainly 1 would.''What do you want in return for doing this for me?'

'What do I want?' the boy asked, smiling. 'Nothing. But... if it were for the Germans, never! But it'sfor our soldiers! I'm a Lombard.'

'Good. Up you go, then.'

'Just a minute while I take my shoes off.'

He took his shoes off, tightened his trouser belt and threw his cap down on to the grass. He put his

arms round the trunk of the ash tree.

'Now take care!' the officer explained, moving to restrain him, as though seized by a sudden fear.The boy turned round to look at him, a question in his beautiful blue eyes.

'It's all right,' said the officer. 'Go on.'

The boy went up, like a cat.

'Look straight ahead!' the officer shouted to the soldiers.

In a few seconds the boy was at the top of the tree, clinging to the trunk. His legs were amongst the

leaves, but his chest was exposed. The sun shone on his fair head, and it looked like gold. He was so small

up there that the officer could hardly see him.

'Look straight ahead in to the distance,' shouted the officer.To see better, the boy took his right hand from the tree and shaded his eyes.

'What can you see?' asked the officer.The boy bent his head towards him and, making a mouthpiece of his hand, shouted, 'Two men on

horseback on the white road.'

'How far from here?'

'Half a mile.'

'Are they moving?'

'They're quite still.'

'What else can you see?' the officer asked after a moment's silence. 'Look to your right.'

The boy looked to his right. Then he said, 'Near the cemetery there's something shining amongst thetrees. They look like bayonets.'

'Can you see anyone?'

'No. They'll be hidden in the corn.'At that moment there was the sharp hiss of a bullet as it passed high overhead and went on to spend

itself far behind the house.

'Come down, boy!' shouted the officer. 'They've seen you. That's all! Come down!'

'I'm not frightened,' the boy replied.

'Come down!' repeated the officer. 'What else can you see, to the left?''To the left?'

'Yes, the left.'

The boy thrust his head to the left. At that moment there was a hiss, sharper and closer than the first,

as another bullet cut through the air. The boy gave a violent start. 'Phew!' he exclaimed. 'They're aiming

right at me!' The bullet had passed very near to him.

'Come down!' shouted the officer in a voice commanding and impatient.

'I'm coming in a minute,' the boy replied. 'But it's all right. The tree's shielding me. You want to

know what's on the left?''The left,' replied the officer. 'But come down!'

'Left,' the boy shouted, leaning in that direction, 'there's a chapel, and I think I can see. . .'A third fierce hiss was heard up there and almost at the same moment the boy fell down. Tree trunk

and branches held him for a second, then he fell head first, his arms wide open.

'My God!' the officer cried, running forward.

The boy's back struck the ground. He lay still, his arms and legs

extended. Blood trickled from his left breast. The sergeant and two soldiers leapt down from their

horses. The officer stooped and opened his shirt. The bullet had entered his left lung.

'He is dead!' the officer exclaimed.


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'No, he's alive!' replied the sergeant.

'Ah! Poor boy! Brave boy! Brave boy!' cried the officer. 'Have courage! Have courage!'

But while he was saying these words and pressing his handkerchief to the wound the boy opened his

eyes wide and his head fell back. He was dead.

The officer, his face pale, regarded him for a moment then laid him down gently with his head on thegrass. He got up and remained looking at him. And the sergeant and the two soldiers stood motionless

looking at him; the others remained facing the enemy.'Poor boy,' the officer said again, sadly. 'Poor, brave boy.'

Then he went to the house, took the tricolour from the window and spread it as a funeral pall over

the small body, leaving the face uncovered. The sergeant gathered together shoes, cap, stick and knife and

put them beside the body.

They stood another moment in silence.

Then the officer turned to the sergeant and said, 'We shall have him taken by the ambulance. He diedlike a soldier, soldiers will bury him.'

Having said this he ordered a salute to the dead and then gave the command 'Mount!' Everyone leapt

into the saddle, the troop assembled, and went on its way.

A few hours later the boy was accorded military honours.

At sunset the whole Italian front line advanced on the enemy, and in two files a great battalion of

riflemen, which a few days earlier had bravely shed its blood on the hill at San Martino, moved along I ht"

route followed that morning by the troop of cavalry. News of the boy's death had reached the soldiers

before they left their camps.The path, flanked by a little stream, was only a few paces from the cottage. When the first officers of

the battalion saw the little body draped in the tricolour lying at the foot of the ash tree they saluted II withtheir sabres. The bank of the stream was covered with flowers. An officer stooped to pick up two flowers

and cast them down.

In a few minutes the boy was covered in flowers and, as they passed, officers and men, all of them

saluted him.

'Bravo, little Lombard!'

'Goodbye, son!'

'To you, little fair one!'

'Good lad!''Well done!'

'Goodbye!'

One officer threw down his medal awarded for valour, another went to kiss his forehead. Theflowers continued to rain on his bare feet, on his blood-stained breast, on his fair head. And he slept there

on the grass, his face white and almost smiling, poor boy, as if he sensed those salutes and was happy to

have given his life for Lombardy.

The poorTuesday, 29th

To give your life for your country like the boy from Lombardy is a noble act, but do not neglect the

smaller virtues, my son. This morning, walking in front of me when we were coming home from school,you passed close by a poor woman who was holding a stunted and delicate child between her knees. She

asked alms of you. You looked at her and gave her nothing, even though there were coins in your pocket.

Listen, my son. Do not get into the habit of passing by without feeling for those in need who ask forhelp, especially when a mother asks for a coin for her child. Remember that the child might be hungry, and

think of the suffering of that poor woman. Imagine your mother's tears of despair if I had to say to you one

day, 'Enrico, today I cannot even give you bread.'

When I give money to a beggar and he says to me, 'May God keep you and yours in good health!',

you cannot imagine the joy the words bring to my heart, the debt of gratitude I owe that poor man. It trulyseems as if the good wish must keep us in good health for a long time and I go home happy. I think, Oh,

that poor man gave me in return much more than I gave him!


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Well then, conduct yourself so that I may sometimes hear that good wish invoked and earned by

you. From time to time take a coin from your little purse and let it fall into the hand of an old man who has

nothing, of a mother without bread, of a child without a mother.

The poor like to receive alms from children because they are not humiliated by them and because

children are in need of everything, just as they are. You will see that there are always beggars near schools.Alms-giving by a man is an act of charity. Alms-giving by a child is both an act of charity and 11 caress.

Do you understand? It is as if both a coin and a flower fell from your hand.Think, while you lack nothing, they lack everything. While you seek happiness, for them it is enough

to avoid death. Think how awful it is that amongst so many palaces and in streets with carriages and

children dressed in velvet there are '/lumen and children who have nothing to eat.

Nothing to eat! My goodness! Children like you, good like you; as clever as you who, in the middle

of a great city, have nothing to eat, like wild animals lost in a desert! Oh, never again, Enrico, never again

pass by a mother who is begging without putting a coin in her hand!

Mother


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DECEMBER

The dealerThursday 1st

My father likes me to bring home or visit one of my school fellows each day of the holiday so that

gradually I can become a friend of them all. On Sunday I shall go for a walk with Votini the well-dressed

boy who is always attending to his appearance and is so envious of Derossi.

Today, meanwhile, Garoffi came to our house. He is the tall thin boy with a nose like an owl's beak

and sly little eyes which seem to be forever searching. He is the son of a grocer and an intriguing, unusual

character. He is always counting the money he has in his pockets. He works it out very quickly on his

fingers and he can do any multiplication without using the tables. He saves and already has a passbookfrom the Scholars' Savings Bank. I am sure he never spends a soldo and if he lets a centesimo fall under the

desks he is quite capable of looking for it for a week.

Do as the magpie does, says Garoffi. Everything that he finds, old pen-nibs, used stamps, pins,

candle grease, he collects. He has been collecting stamps now for more than two years and he already has

hundreds from every country in a big album. He will sell it to the bookshop when it is full. Meanwhile the

bookseller gives him his exercise books free because he takes a lot of children into the shop.

At school he is always making deals. Every day he sells things, including lottery tickets, and 'heexchanges things. Then he will regret an exchange and want his items back, buy them for two centesimiand sell them for four. He plays for nibs and never loses. He sells old newspapers to the tobacconist and he

has a little book full of additions and subtractions in which he notes down his dealings. At school he works

hard only in arithmetic, and if he wants the prize it is only so that he can have a free ticket to the puppet

theatre.

I like him. He amuses me. We have played at shops with the weights and balance. He knows the

rig

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