KHOIH 
 
 Frances Hbfcgson Burnett 
 
LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF I 
 

 Shelli, she said." 
 
CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN 
 
 AND 
 
 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER 
 
 EY 
 
 FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT 
 
 AUTHOR OF "LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY," "THAT 
 LASS o LOWRIE S," " THROUGH ONE 
 
 ADMINISTRATION," ETC. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 
 BY ALBERT E. STERNER 
 
 LONDON 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD, McILVAINE & CO. 
 
 45, ALBEMARLE STREET, W. 
 1892 
 
 [All rights reserved] 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Part fc 
 
 INTRODUCTION . vii 
 
 ILLUSTRISSIMO SIGNOR BEBE . . . . i 
 
 THE DAUGHTER OF THE CUSTODIAN . . 19 
 
 A PRETTY ROMAN BEGGAR .... 35 
 
 EIGHT LITTLE PRINCES 49 
 
 ONE WHO LIVED LONG, LONG AGO . . 65 
 
 THE LITTLE FAUN ...... 87 
 
 "WHAT USE is A POET?" .... 104 
 
 THE BOY WHO BECAME A SOCIALIST . .117 
 
 BIRDIE .... 128 
 
 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER . . . .145 
 THE QUITE TRUE STORY OF AN OLD HAW 
 THORN TREE . . . . . .217 
 
INTRODUCTION. 1 
 
 ALL my life I have made stones, and since I 
 was seven years old I have written them. I 
 suppose everyone has his own way of look 
 ing at things. I think a man or woman who 
 is an artist sees almost everything as a 
 picture. Sunset and sunrise, country and 
 town groups, children playing, older people 
 at work, all form themselves into pictures 
 when an artist looks at them. 
 
 In the same way it happens that when I 
 see a scene, an incident, a person, I find 
 myself quite naturally and without any con 
 scious effort looking for the story in it. I 
 don t know how many such stories pass 
 through my mind in a day. Some of them 
 merely flit through like birds across the sky, 
 and are forgotten, but there are some that 
 
 1 The following sketches with the accompanying 
 introduction were originally written for a Youths 
 Department published by a Syndicate of American 
 newspapers. 
 
Viil INTRODUCTION. 
 
 stay or at least leave traces. And I was 
 thinking about this a few days ago, and 
 calling out of the shadows a number of 
 children some of whom, though only seen 
 for a few moments, have remained quite 
 distinct memories to me, and seem like little 
 friends I would like to know more about. I 
 caie for children so much, and am so inter 
 ested in them, that when I see a small or big 
 boy or girl I feel as if somehow I was part 
 of them, and we could perfectly understand 
 each other if we had time to talk. It does 
 not matter where or what the child is, it is 
 all the same. He may be a tiny news-boy 
 in New York, a little fellow with sun-bleached 
 hair I find in the mountains of North Caro 
 lina, a poor little eager man waiting in the 
 mud and drizzling rain in a crowded London 
 street, and rushing to open my carriage door 
 in hope of being given a few coppers ; a 
 beautiful little soft- eyed, curly-haired beggar 
 in Rome, lingering in the sun until I drive 
 out of the court-yard of my hotel that he 
 may run after me laughing as he calls out 
 " Soldi, Signora " quite sure that he is so 
 pretty and coaxing that he need not pretend 
 to look miserable (which he is not at all) and 
 that the soldi will be thrown tinkling on the 
 pavement. It is the same thing whoever 
 
INTRODUCTION. ix 
 
 they are. I belong- to them and they belong 
 to me. The feeling that I understand them 
 I think exists so strongly, because of a little 
 girl I once knew ever so many years ago. 
 Curiously enough I am not quite fixed in my 
 idea of how long ago it was. Sometimes I 
 think it was a thousand years since, and 
 sometimes I think it must not have been 
 more than a week ago. I knew her very, 
 very well ; I lived with her, dined with her, 
 slept with her, and knew every tiniest and 
 greatest thought she had. I knew what she 
 thought of the grown-up people and their 
 ways ; I knew what made her lose her little 
 temper, and what made her happy ; I knew 
 the stories she made up for herself about her 
 dolls, and the books whose leaves she was so 
 fond of sitting and turning over and over before 
 she could read at all. (There was a queer little 
 flat geography she adored because it felt so 
 nice to hold it and to turn the leaves over.) 
 But if I do not stop I shall begin to tell you 
 stories about her, and I must not begin with 
 her I must end with her or edge her in 
 among those more important than she is, if I 
 talk about her at all because her little name 
 was Frances Hodgson, and we all know it is 
 not good taste to occupy public attention 
 with oneself. I mention her now because I 
 
X INTRODUCTION. 
 
 remember so clearly those years when she 
 was a child and thought and reasoned and 
 dreamed and even suffered in her queer little 
 way, and it is this remembering which draws 
 me so close to the children and makes me 
 believe I know what they feel. It was some 
 recollection of her that set me thinking the 
 other day about the children who, without 
 knowing it, had made stories for me, and, 
 remembering how she delighted in hearing 
 anything like a story which had really and 
 truly happened, I thought perhaps it might 
 be a good idea if I made some little sketches 
 of the real children who have made me think 
 about them. She herself was the most in 
 tensely romantic little person, and I believe 
 now it must have been her hungry searching 
 for romance which led her to continually 
 disturb the repose of her sober respectable 
 English nurses by fixing her big eyes upon 
 them, and saying, 
 
 " Haven t you a little sister or brother or 
 anything you could tell me something about ? 
 Didn t something ever happen to some of 
 your relations ?" 
 
 I am sure it was often considered very 
 trying to these respectable persons whose 
 chief idea of decorum was that nothing 
 should " happen " to them or their families. 
 
INTRODUCTION. XI* 
 
 I remember that more than once they replied 
 in an almost scandalized manner, 
 
 " Lor, no, Miss Frances." 
 
 But there was one who was mysteriously 
 married to a soldier who wore a beautiful 
 tight scarlet jacket and a tiny round cap 
 always so much on one side that I never 
 knew why it stayed on at all. But that is a 
 story in itself and I must save it. But I 
 remember what a joy site was. And there 
 was another, who was a widow, who had a 
 little boy called Johnny, and though I never 
 saw him or anyone who had seen him, he 
 was the subject of my most fascinating con 
 versations with Sarah, though I grieve to say 
 that being a person quite without imagination 
 the most searching cross-examination never 
 elicited any anecdote about him. After 
 months I only knew that he was seven and 
 that his hair did not curl. I should have 
 been so happy if she could have told me 
 something a little interesting about him. As 
 he was a real child almost anything would 
 have seemed interesting. And the distinct 
 recollection of this fact makes me think 
 perhaps my little descriptions of real children 
 I have seen in different countries may be 
 interesting to other real ones. Some of these 
 memories I have put into books already, some 
 
xii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 are awaiting their turn to be made into 
 heroes and heroines, but in the meantime I 
 think I shall make some sketches as artists 
 often do when they are preparing to paint a 
 picture. 
 
 FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT, 
 
"ILLUSTRISSIMO SIGNOR 
 BEBB." 
 
 To begin with, I never saw him, At least 
 I never saw anything of him but some photo 
 graphs. And yet in all my gallery of children 
 who have made stories there is no little figure 
 more distinct to me or more full of intense 
 juvenile character than that of Illustrissimo 
 Signer Bebe. I called him this because he 
 was such an all-powerful and distinguished 
 little person, and because, being an Italian, if 
 he had been grown-up, instead of five years old 
 his letters would have been addressed, accord 
 ing to polite custom, Illustrissimo Signor, etc. 
 His real name was Luigi Roberto, but no one 
 ever called him so. He was always addressed 
 and spoken of as Bebe, and so, after hearing 
 innumerable delightful stories of him in which 
 he always figured as the most magnificent 
 autocrat and invariably managed to have 
 his own way, I fell into the habit of speaking 
 of him as "Illustrissimo Signor Bebe." 
 
 B 
 
2 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 There is a little room in my house in 
 London which has flowery walls and hang 
 ings, lounging chairs, and fanciful light 
 bits of furniture. One of these bits of 
 furniture is a fantastic little double-shelved 
 table, with a chair, equally light and fantastic, 
 attached. I do not know why the chair is 
 part of the table, as it is placed sideways and 
 nobody could sit in it and write on the table, 
 and, in fact, the table is not made to write on 
 at all. It is too light and small. It is made 
 only to hold books or trifling ornaments, and 
 this table is dedicated to Illustrissimo Signer 
 Bebe. 
 
 In the first place there is a photograph 
 upon a small easel. It is the picture of a 
 most beautiful little boy of about four years 
 old, and he seems to be far from pleased with 
 the circumstances with which he finds himself 
 surrounded. In fact he looks distinctly pout 
 ing, but as charming as a disgusted and too- 
 much-photographed baby can be. 
 
 The truth was, I believe, that being an 
 infant professional beauty he had been photo 
 graphed to the verge of distraction and the 
 limit of endurance, and finally had clutched 
 his big sailor hat, clasped his arms over the 
 back of his chair, and rested his curl-laden 
 head upon them, looking out under his eye- 
 
ILLUSTRISSIMO SIGNOR BliBfi. 3 
 
 lashes and pouting at all the world his 
 mamma, the photographer whom he regarded 
 as a troublesome idiot, the little bird who 
 would not fly out of the camera when he 
 waited for him, and his mamma s friend and 
 his own adorer and slave, the young lady 
 who had used all sorts of devices to make 
 him sit up and look good-tempered. 
 
 He did not feel good-tempered, he was an 
 injured and bored person, and he did not 
 intend to look as if he was pleased when he 
 was really bored to death with the imbecilities 
 of these people. So he put his head on his 
 arm and dangled his legs, and the photo 
 grapher hurriedly took the prettiest picture 
 Illustrissimo Signer Bebe had ever had. 
 Nothing could have been prettier the 
 tumbling mass of long curls falling over his 
 shoulder and shading his round cheek, his 
 rebellious little face, his plump, mutinous 
 legs, which looked as if they were ready to 
 kick, his protesting dark eyes, and the in 
 dignant pose of the arms, and the sailor hat 
 scornfully held, made not only a photograph, 
 but a picture which told its own story. 
 
 I should have quite adored it, even if I had 
 
 not heard all these stories about Illustrissimo 
 
 Signer Bebe and kept pace with his record, 
 
 as it were, during a whole Florentine winter, 
 
 B 2 
 
4 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 but knowing his little peculiarities I delighted 
 in it and laughed almost every time I saw it. 
 The decoration which stands near it is in 
 its own way equally interesting and charac 
 teristic. It is a letter boldly framed, and 
 which has an easel also. It is not a very 
 long letter nor a very big one, but the hand 
 writing is not in the least cramped. It has 
 been allowed plenty of space and fills superbly 
 a page and a half. If one were inclined to 
 criticize, one might say that it was large and 
 sprawling, and that the lines had a tendency 
 to emulate the example of the illustrious 
 writer and go where they pleased. But who 
 would have the audacity and bad taste to 
 criticize, the very first literary effort of Illus- 
 trissimo Signer Bebe ? At the same time it 
 seems a pity that it should be copied in mere 
 common every-day printing instead of in the 
 fearless and voluminous caligraphy of the 
 author. 
 
 1 " CARA LUISA," it reads, 
 
 "Ti voglio bene e scrive meglio che 
 posso Torna presto e ti mando un bacio 
 affezionatissimo, 
 
 " LUIGI ROBERTO." 
 
 In English it would be : 
 
ILLUSTRISSIMO SIGNOR BEBE. 5 
 
 "DEAR LOUISE, 
 
 " I wish thee very well " (an Italian 
 phrase which really signifies " I love you " 
 in the sense that friends and parents and 
 children say it to each other) " and I write 
 as well as I possibly can. Come back soon, 
 and I send thee a very affectionate kiss. 
 
 " Louis ROBERT." 
 
 ]t was the very first letter of his life, 
 written after the wonderful events of his first 
 months at school where, after infinite 
 diplomacy, he had finally been induced to 
 permit himself to be escorted, with the full 
 understanding that it was the beginning of 
 his preparation for entering the Italian army, 
 of which he had early announced his inten 
 tion of becoming a general. 
 
 It had been composed by himself with 
 many intellectual throes, and had been 
 forwarded promptly to the young lady who 
 had been the friend of his uneducated in 
 fancy, and who had delightedly told me the 
 stories which had made him so distinct and 
 amusing a little personage to me. 
 
 As he was only four years old when I first 
 knew of him, and he was already quite a 
 veteran, it may be argued that he had chosen 
 his career of arms comparatively early in life. 
 
 I never knew exactly when he became a 
 
6 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 warrior or when he began to demand uni 
 forms and carry swords and guns, and object 
 eloquently and with fire to the wearing of 
 long curls and petticoats, as unbecoming an 
 officer and a gentleman, but nearly all the 
 anecdotes I heard of him had for their point 
 some such protest or demand as these. 
 
 His surroundings were not ordinary ones. 
 He was born to the infant purple as it were. 
 Emperors are supposed to issue mandates, 
 czars are considered autocratic, kings and 
 princes are regarded as having power, but 
 for an omnipotent uncombatable potentate 
 commend me to a beautiful, relative-wor 
 shipped baby who understands his privileges 
 and is not averse to using them. 
 
 Illustrissimo Signor Bebe was not in the 
 least averse, and had fully appreciated his 
 position from the first. 
 
 In the first place he was a marvellous 
 beauty, in the second he had a will of iron 
 braced with steel, in the third he had a 
 beautiful and brilliant mother who adored 
 him, and a father who adored her, and in the 
 fourth he had taken prompt and decided 
 possession of his entire family and their re 
 sources from his first hour. 
 
 He had two brothers who were unusually 
 fine and clever, but Signor Bebe considered 
 
ILLUSTRISSIMO SIGNOR BB. 7 
 
 them merely as adjuncts which at times might 
 be made useful. They were comparatively 
 grown up, and they had merely the accom 
 plishments which could gain them admiration 
 and prizes at school. They had short hair 
 and wore ordinary clothes, and when they 
 spoke only commanded ordinary attention. 
 They were not attired in billows of lace under 
 mantles of crimson plush ; passers-by did not 
 exclaim at the mere sight of their beauty, the 
 moment they deigned to express an opinion 
 or make a little dramatic gesture they did 
 not find themselves attended by an enraptured 
 and ecstatic audience. 
 
 " II est a croquer, cet enfant," people ex 
 claimed. " Joli comme un petit Amour avec 
 ses longues boucles blondes et ses grands 
 yeux noirs." (He is pretty enough to eat, 
 or to crunch between one s teeth like a bon 
 bon ; to translate more exactly, " That child. 
 He is as pretty as a little Love, with his long 
 blonde curls and his big black eyes.") 
 
 Signor Bebe heard a great deal of French 
 spoken, and spoke a little himself, but it must 
 be confessed a very little. But this fact did 
 not prejudice him when he desired to be suffi 
 ciently sweeping in his remarks to his poor, 
 long-suffering, much-trampled-on, German 
 nurse. 
 
8 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 " I speak only Italian, French and Eng 
 lish," he said. " No German. I hate Ger 
 man. It is ugly and stupid. The Germans," 
 with a scathing glance at poor Margarethe, 
 " are all stupid and ugly too." Margarethe 
 knew nothing but German and did not in the 
 least understand Italian. It was said to be 
 rather a touching spectacle to see her calmly 
 beaming and delighted countenance when the 
 lllustrissimo " chivied " her in his mellifluous 
 Tuscan, calling her " Bruta, Imbecile, 
 Stupida, Tedescacia," while she broadly 
 smiled, imagining confidingly, it was said, 
 that he was lavishing endearments upon her. 
 She was a good, stupid soul, and was always 
 ready to be his slave. It was she who dressed 
 him laboriously, inserting one kicking, dancing 
 foot into his sock, and then heavily and 
 seriously giving chase all over the house, 
 while he ran from one room to another, until 
 she caught him and bore him back to his bed 
 room to put on the other. She ran miles 
 during the performance of his toilet, and 
 in warm weather ended it mopping her 
 brows and exhausted, but still mildly beam 
 ing. It was she who was called upon to be 
 the horse, and be enthusiastically and realisti 
 cally beaten by the lllustrissimo, when he 
 placed the chairs in a row to make a coach, 
 
ILLUSTRISSIMO SIGNOR BB. 9 
 
 and played coachman himself. It was she 
 who must be drilled, and marched with 
 an umbrella or poker over her shoulder, 
 while the illustrious General Bebe rated her 
 vigorously for the lack of promptness and 
 soldierly grace in manoeuvres. 
 
 It never occurred to the Illustrissimo that 
 the whole world and the fulness thereof were 
 not created solely that he might dispose of 
 them for his own amusement. I do not think 
 he ever asked for anything. Everything was 
 given to him before he had time to ask. 
 Apparently people sat up at night to invent 
 things to give him. Superb playthings were 
 lavished on him on every side. Wonderful 
 uniforms, swords and guns and lances were 
 made for him and sent by doting god-parents 
 and insatiate adorers in various cities. He 
 was an officer of infantry, of cavalry, of 
 engineers ; he was a bersagliere with broad low 
 hat and floating plumes ; he was a Cuirassier, 
 a Uhlan, and I believe even a Papal Guard, 
 everything military and bloodthirsty, and 
 brilliant in accoutrements was Illustrissimo 
 Signor Bebe. When a military idea occurred 
 to him he simply ordered his nearest relatives 
 to assist him to carry it out. 
 
 "To-day I saw an officer s funeral," he 
 would perhaps announce in the middle of 
 
IO CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 dinner. " There were soldiers marching. And 
 there were drums. They went like this, Buom, 
 buom, buom, " thumping solemnly on the 
 table with the largest spoon he could appro 
 priate. " There were flags and guns. The 
 soldiers marched like this," scrambling down 
 from his chair to illustrate with funereal 
 dramaticaction. " Papa Godfredo Oscarino 
 come and march. And we will have an 
 officer s funeral. Papa, carry the fire-screen 
 for a funeral banner, Godfredo, carry the 
 poker, and Oscarino the tongs. I w r ill be 
 the music buom, buom, buom, that s the 
 drum tra lira la, that s the other musics." 
 
 And it was absolutely necessary that he 
 should be followed solemnly round the table 
 in funeral pomp, while the soup got cold. 
 
 " At least, show respect," he would say 
 furiously to the brother who dared to 
 giggle ; " it is a generale." I do not know 
 what would have happened if his family had 
 refused to form the procession, and had firmly 
 continued eating their soup. I used to feel 
 curious to know. But I never heard of such 
 iconoclastic steps being taken. 
 
 But notwithstanding the processions, the uni 
 forms and weapons, he felt there were serious 
 obstacles in the way of his military career. 
 
 " Soldiers/ he said, " do not wear long 
 curls and petticoats. I have never seen one. 
 
ILLUSTRISSIMO SIGNOR BtiBfi. II 
 
 What would they do on the field of battle ! 
 You" sternly to his mamma, " have never seen 
 a general in a frock and sash and with curls. " 
 
 "Well no," his mamma was obliged to 
 admit reluctantly. 
 
 " The generale who rides by with the 
 soldiers in the morning has no curls/ he 
 elaborated, "and he does not wear petti 
 coats, I have noticed." 
 
 " But perhaps he did when he was your 
 age," said his mother. 
 
 " I do not believe it. I shall salute him 
 and ask him the next time I see him on the 
 Lung Arno." And he walked up and down 
 the salon gesticulating dramatically. 
 
 " Belli soldati, che portano le sottane e i 
 riccioli." (Pretty soldiers, who wear petti 
 coats and curls.) " Ma si, signore, quando 
 vedro il generale glilo voglio proprio 
 domandare." (Yes, sirs, when I see the 
 general I will indeed ask him.) 
 
 I should have been very much charmed to 
 have had the privilege of being present during 
 the interview, when the <c generale" was put to 
 the question. But I was not present on that 
 interesting occasion, and I have only had the 
 pleasure of imagining it. 
 
 I can see the Lung Arno Nuova, almost 
 dazzling white in the brilliant Italian sun and 
 under the pure brightness of the blue sky. I 
 
12 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 can see the familiar, gaily costumed, figures 
 of the peasant women who stand always in 
 the same place with their pile of queer, home 
 made stuffs and embroideries in purple and 
 red and yellow and green. I can see the few 
 morning promenaders, mostly " forestieri," and 
 children and nurses taking their slow walk by 
 the low wall which borders the bank of the 
 shallow, unreliable river Arno. I can see the 
 old man with the old basket piled with violets 
 and jonquils and daffodils and hyacinths, of 
 deep blue and red anemones and delicate 
 shivering sprays and branches of yellow 
 mimosa. I can hear his voice as he chants 
 " Belli violi ! Belli violi ! Mammoli, Belli 
 Mammoli." And as I listen I see Signer 
 Bebe marching valiantly with a sword in his 
 sash and poor Margarethe trying to keep up 
 with him, because it is never the Illustrissimo 
 who tries to keep up with her. 
 
 And in the distance there approaches a tall 
 old officer with a martial tread and sword and 
 spurs, and a fine grey moustache, and the 
 uniform of a " Generate dei Carabinieri." 
 
 And the Illustrissimo catches sight of him 
 and shrieks aloud with rapture. 
 
 " The generale," he says; "come quick 
 come run fast after me. I am going to 
 ask him/ 
 
 He flies and his " boucles blondes " stream 
 
ILLUSTRISSIMO SIGNOR BB. 13 
 
 after him like a yellow silk banner ; his 
 shining sword dances, and the generale sees 
 him and smiles, as people always do when 
 they see Signor Bebe. 
 
 And I imagine how the generale looked 
 and how his smile grew as the little figure 
 drew up before him and bestowed upon him a 
 most military salute. 
 
 " Generale," says the Illustrissimo boldly, 
 " I told my mamma I would ask you. Do 
 you ever wear petticoats and long curls ? " 
 
 " Petticoats ! curls ! my dear ! " exclaimed 
 the old officer. 
 
 " I knew you did not ; I have told my 
 mamma. How can a soldier wear curls and 
 petticoats ? How could he fight and use his 
 sword ? I am a soldier ! I am going to be 
 a generale like you. And a pretty generale 
 I should be with curls and frocks ! My 
 mamma must take them off. You do not 
 wear them, do you ?" 
 
 " No," said the generale, bending over him 
 smiling ; " I do not." 
 
 " Then I must not. No generale does. 
 You never wore them, did you ? " 
 
 "Well," admits the generale, smiling more 
 than ever, "I think perhaps I did, when I was 
 as young as you ! " 
 
 " I am six ! " cried the Illustrissimo 
 grandly. 
 
14 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 "When you are sixteen," said the generale, 
 patting the small hand he had taken, and 
 nodding his head consolingly, " your curls 
 will be cut off and you will not wear sottani" 
 
 I can imagine the consternation of poor 
 Margarethe when she reached the field of 
 action and her tremulous " Scusi, Scusi, 
 Signer Generate/ as she dragged her gesti 
 culating, expostulating charge away. 
 
 It was after we had left Florence that the 
 great decision was made that the Illustrissmo 
 Signor must go to school. It must have been 
 a decision arrived at with no small misgivings 
 and with no trivial discussion in family con 
 clave. It was not an insignificant matter, 
 and there was always one most serious point 
 to be considered. His papa and mamma, 
 his grandmothers and godmothers might 
 decide that he should go. But what if his 
 decision did not accord with theirs ? What 
 if Illustrissimo Bebe decided that he would 
 not ? I can imagine how carefully the sub 
 ject was broached, how diplomatically it was 
 dealt with, and what a specious military air 
 all scholastic training was given. I should 
 have wished to have been present on these 
 occasions also, but this too was a joyful 
 experience denied me. I only heard that 
 somehow military training skilfully inter- 
 
1LLUSTRISSIMO SIGNOR BB. 15 
 
 woven with the alphabet and " pot hooks 
 and hangers," and never being allowed to 
 disconnect themselves in the Illustrissimo s 
 mind, finally prevailed. There was a de 
 lightful legend that he required his mamma 
 to go to school with him, and that this very 
 charming and vivacious young person duti 
 fully accompanied him daily to the seat of 
 learning, and learned the alphabet also ; but 
 this seems really too delicious to be true, so 
 1 have always preferred to believe it, without 
 inquiring into it too closely. 
 
 At any rate I know that at this time the 
 despised sottani were finally cast aside with 
 other unmilitary trivialities, the boncles blondes 
 were cropped off, and, armed to the teeth, 
 Illustrissimo Signer Bebewent to school. He 
 never went without a sword, sometimes he 
 took also a gun, and as many stilettoes as 
 could be stuck round his belt. It appeared 
 that he regarded the field of letters as a field 
 of battle, only to be entered in full panoply. 
 
 " Where is my sword ? " he used to say at 
 nine o clock, as other children say, " Where is 
 my spelling-book ? " 
 
 W T e used to be entertained from time to 
 time with animated descriptions of his educa 
 tional progress. This, it appeared, was 
 magnificent. 
 
 " You will be charmed to hear, his mamma 
 
16 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 wrote to his Cara Luisa, " that Bebe brings 
 home always des diplomes de sagesse " (Diplo 
 mas for good behaviour). 
 
 " It is rather a mystery, but it is no less 
 fcrue that he gains them." 
 
 We were charmed and also rather surprised. 
 For myself, reflecting upon past anecdotes, I 
 was a little inclined to think that in the case 
 of the Illustrissimo, the pen might not be 
 mightier than the sword. I suggested to 
 Cara Luisa, that perhaps the sword induced 
 the pen to inscribe these noteworthy certi 
 ficates. 
 
 " Bebe gets always his diplomes de sagesse" 
 wrote another friend of his family. " We 
 don t quite understand why, as he stays at 
 home from school whenever he is inclined to, 
 which is generally." 
 
 It was at this time that the wonderful auto 
 graph letter was written which stands framed 
 on the little table. I was thinking then of 
 returning to visit Florence, and Cara Luisa 
 spoke of this in answering the letter, and said 
 that she would take to the Illustrissimo a 
 veritable sailor costume which she could buy 
 in London, the costume of " un vero Capitano 
 Inglese." From this moment until we reached 
 Florence, every visitor who entered the house 
 was greeted at the door with the ecstatic and 
 
ILLUSTRISSIMO SIGNOR BB. I/ 
 
 excited proclamation that " La Luisa, la 
 Luisa " was coming back and was bringing 
 him the costume of a real "Capitano Inglese." 
 " La Luisa " took it, collar and anchors and 
 cords and whistle, gold-banded cap and cut 
 lass and all. Among all his other uniforms 
 he had never possessed this one. When she 
 went to call, she asked the servant politely 
 for Signor Roberto, and she was sitting alone 
 in the salon when he entered. 
 
 He had grown and lost his plumpness, he 
 wore a little coat, and his curls were cropped 
 close to his head, and his hair was no longer 
 golden. But he was still as ever Illustrissimo 
 Signor Bebe. He approached her holding 
 out his hand to shake hands in the proper 
 English style, in deference to her foreign 
 sojourns. 
 
 " High do you do ? " he remarked triumph 
 antly. " High do you do, La Luisa ? " Do 
 you spik English, I spik English." And hav 
 ing exhausted his vocabulary, he poured forth 
 a volley of his native Italian, the point of 
 which was, of course, his desire to put on im 
 mediately the costume of the real English 
 Captain. His mamma thought she had 
 taught him to say, " How do you do/ but the 
 fact that it became " High do you do" when 
 he reached the salon was of small moment. 
 
 C 
 
1 8 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 He felt himself perfectly at ease in his 
 character of linguist. 
 
 " And how about the diplomes de sagesse, 
 Bebe ? " asked his visitor. " How do you get 
 them, when they tell me that you stay at 
 home so often, and scarcely go to school lat 
 all ?" 
 
 He made a fine sweeping gesture of 
 triumph. 
 
 " Yes," he said. " You see ! there are some 
 of those others who go every day and do not 
 get any. And I I who stay at home so 
 many days, can still get one every time." 
 
 This, it was suggested later by a subtle 
 mind, was perhaps an excellent reason, the 
 sole occasions when the recipient was " sage " 
 being when he was absent from the scene of 
 his scholastic triumphs. When we were in 
 Rome a few weeks later " La Luisa " received 
 a photograph. It represented a small Eng 
 lish naval officer with a small Italian face, 
 apparently seated on the shore of the bound 
 less ocean, and looking most nautically into the 
 " offing " whatsoever the " offing" may be. 
 
 Its place is on the table near the framed 
 letter and under it is written : 
 
 " Illustrissimo Signer Bebe, qui regarde son 
 
THE DAUGHTER OF THE 
 CUSTODIAN. 
 
 THE guide book only mentions her father, 
 but we did not see her father, we only saw 
 her, and I was glad it was so. I daresay her 
 father is a very nice old Roman peasant, but 
 she performed his duties in a much more 
 interesting way than he could have done, I 
 am sure, and she was such a pretty, sweet- 
 voiced, friendly, smiling little thing that it 
 was a pleasure to walk round the old Roman 
 cemetery guided by her, and listening to her 
 soft Italian chatter. 
 
 It was chatter, and bright childish chatter 
 too, and one certainly never saw a brighter 
 pair of dark eyes or a happier little face, and 
 yet she lives under the shadow of the dark 
 cypresses in an old deserted graveyard ; 
 when she sees the sunshine in the morning 
 she sees it first piercing through these 
 shadowy cypress trees to dapple kindly the 
 old grey moss-grown monuments and granite 
 C 2 
 
20 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 slabs, and I suppose she has played among 
 the mounds of earth since her very baby 
 hood. 
 
 It is in the old Protestant cemetery outside 
 Rome that she lives, in the small house just 
 near the big iron gates which are always 
 kept locked until some visitor rings the 
 queerly tinkling little bell which hangs out 
 side, and either the child or her father the cus 
 todian goes to open it, and shows the strangers 
 the graves they have come to see. 
 
 It is quite an old cemetery. It was laid 
 out at the beginning of the century, but is no 
 longer used to bury people in, but strangers 
 who are in Rome particularly English and 
 Americans nearly all go there just to stand 
 and look at two graves. 
 
 They are the graves of two great English 
 poets, both of whom had sad lives, both of 
 whom died sad deaths, and both of whom all 
 the world knows and all the world remem 
 bers. 
 
 They are the poets Shelley and Keats. It 
 was these graves I went to see and which the 
 custodian s little daughter guided me to 
 with my English lady friend and my Italian 
 companion. 
 
 It was a lovely day in the very early spring 
 when we drove out to the cemetery, but in 
 
THE DAUGHTER OF THE CUSTODIAN. 21 
 
 spite of the sunshine it looked rather dark 
 under all the tall cypresses as our carnage 
 stopped before the gate. 
 
 " The gate seems to be locked," I said. 
 " Perhaps we have not come at the right 
 hour." 
 
 " I suppose one must ring the bell," said 
 my companion. " Evidently one must. You 
 see the chain hangs outside." 
 
 So she got out of the carriage and pulled 
 the chain, the bell gave its queer cracked tinkle 
 and almost immediately the little girl came 
 out of the house and ran towards us with a 
 big key. 
 
 She opened the gates and stood smiling up 
 at us as we entered, as if we had been guests 
 she had been expecting and was very pleased 
 to see. It was evident that her father was 
 away, and that she had been left to perform 
 his duties. 
 
 " Buon giorno, Signoras," she said sweetly, 
 and we all three smiled back at her and said 
 " Buon giorno " in return. 
 
 She was not more than eight or nine years 
 old at the most, and at first I thought that as 
 she was so young she perhaps might not 
 know the name of Shelley, or might not re 
 member it as it was English and she was 
 only used to hearing Italian words. 
 
22 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 " Ask her," I said to my companion, " to 
 show us the grave where the great English 
 poet is buried. So many people come to see 
 it that of course she will have heard it spoken 
 of often enough to have remembered. She 
 will not know the name perhaps, if you men 
 tion it, but she will know there is the grave 
 of an English poet, which the forestieri 
 always want to see/ 
 
 But I need not have had any doubts. The 
 moment my companion spoke of the " Poeta 
 Inglese" her pretty little face lighted up and 
 her bright dark eyes smiled more brightly 
 than ever. 
 
 " Si, si, Signora ! J) she exclaimed. " Shelli 
 Shelli ! " 
 
 She made it an Italian name giving it an 
 Italian termination, but it was clear that she 
 knew all about it: 
 
 She led the way, running lightly before us 
 up a rather steep path between the graves 
 until she turned a corner and presently 
 stopped triumphantly before a deserted look 
 ing nook near a dark grey moss and lichen 
 covered wall. 
 
 " Shelli," she said, waving her little hand 
 and smiling brilliantly, " Shelli/ 
 
 And before us, among the graves and under 
 the cypresses, there was a slab of dark granite 
 
THE DAUGHTER OF THE CUSTODIAN. 23 
 
 fitted into the earth, and all that I remember 
 now of the inscription (which I think was * 
 in Latin) is the name Percy Bysshe Shelley. 
 Those of the children who know of this poet 
 will remember how he was overtaken by a 
 squall while in a boat with his friend at sea, 
 and how his body was afterwards washed 
 ashore in the Bay of Spezia, and burned there 
 on a funeral pyre on the sands, his friend 
 Lord Byron looking on as mourner. But his 
 heart would not burn, and it is his heart only 
 which lies under the stone slab in that shady 
 corner outside Rome his strange, wild 
 ardent, often troubled poet s heart. It 
 prompted him to do many things which were 
 against the world s laws and which the world 
 blames, but I have always thought that in 
 the depths of this heart which would not 
 burn when his body fell to ashes, he truly 
 believed whether he was mistaken or not 
 that he was right, and that mightier laws not 
 of this world would understand him and 
 blame him less. 
 
 We stood in the cypress-shadowed corner 
 for a while looking at the grave and talking 
 to each other about it, our small guide re 
 garding us with great interest, and now and 
 then volunteering some friendly explanation 
 in Italian. 
 
24 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN 
 
 A great many forestieri came to see this 
 grave, she told us. Oh, a great many ! And 
 it was only a heart that was buried there. 
 Her father had told her. It was the heart of 
 a great English milord who had written 
 books which everybody read. He had been 
 drowned, and his body had been burned at 
 Spezia, by the sea which drowned him, but 
 his heart had not been burnt, and was brought 
 here. 
 
 " Ask her if there is any other grave here 
 that the forestieri wish to see," I said to my 
 companion. 
 
 She looked as animated as she had done 
 when we asked her about Shelley. She looked 
 as if she were quite delighted at having some 
 thing else to show us which we should be 
 sure to be interested in. 
 
 " Keatsi," she said in her droll little Italian 
 way. " Keatsi." 
 
 " She means Keats," I exclaimed. " I did 
 not know that his grave was in this particular 
 cemetery." 
 
 It was not in this particular cemetery it 
 seemed. This was the " Old Cemetery," but 
 there was the other cemetery only a few 
 yards away, and the grave of " Keatsi," as 
 she called him, was there. 
 
 We said good-bye to the slab of granite 
 
THE DAUGHTER OF THE CUSTODIAN. 25 
 
 and followed her down the steep path again 
 and through the iron gateway, across the road 
 and over some grass until we came to a 
 curious narrow entrance which led us into the 
 altro cimitaro." Quite near the entrance 
 were two graves with white headstones, side 
 by side, and very close together. 
 
 " Keatsi," said the custodian s little 
 daughter, pointing to the nearest, and her 
 pretty exultant smile showed that she at 
 least did not know anything of the sad story 
 of the broken poet s heart that had long ago 
 changed to dust beneath. 
 
 There was no name written on this head 
 stone- ; only these sorrowful words : 
 
 " This grave contains all that was mortal of a young 
 English poet, who, on his death-bed, in the bitterness 
 of his heart, desired these words to be engraved on 
 his tombstone 
 
 Here lies one whose name was writ in water/ " 
 
 His was such a cruel story. He was so 
 young, so sensitive, so full of dreams and 
 ambitions. He himself must have known 
 surely that immortal genius burned in his 
 heart and brain, and that from glowing genius 
 all his dreaming sprang. He poured forth 
 his whole life and strength into his work, and 
 then, as the sole return, suffered the mortal 
 
26 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 anguish ot seeing it scorned, derided, and 
 condemned by the inhospitable, uncompre 
 hending world. Then a fatal disease con 
 sumption, that most cruel and hopeless 
 disease of all slowly drained his life and 
 courage to the dregs. At first he struggled 
 against it perhaps he could not believe that 
 this last blow had really come, it must have 
 seemed too hard but when he died in Rome, 
 alone save for his one true generous friend, 
 his spirit was broken, his poet wings hung 
 shattered, he could hope and dream no 
 more. 
 
 " Let it be graven on my tombstone," he 
 said in weary bitterness, " Here lies one 
 whose name was writ in water. " 
 
 It seemed to him that his life, his labour, 
 his genius, had all gone for nothing they 
 would not even leave a ripple on the great 
 sweeping river of Time. And yet he had so 
 suffered and so fiercely aspired. If he had 
 only known what Fame would give to him 
 too late, that pilgrim feet would stand by his 
 grave without a name, that the name not 
 written on the plain headstone would blaze 
 in letters of golden fire on the page where 
 only the names of the Immortals burn. 
 
 And by his side close by his side lies 
 that one generous, faithful friend who was 
 
THE DAUGHTER OF THE CUSTODIAN. 2/ 
 
 true to him and tried to comfort him through 
 all his anguish and loneliness, when he was 
 poor, despised, and desolate, when he went 
 down into the Valley of the Shadow of Death, 
 in a foreign land, helpless and otherwise as it 
 seemed utterly alone. 
 
 It seemed so fitting that he should lie 
 there, so beautiful. It is such a great and 
 noble thing to be a faithful friend. Surely 
 there can be nothing greater and sweeter 
 than to be this one lovable thing. To be 
 faithful and a comfort through failure, grief, 
 misfortune, discouragement, illness, even to 
 the gates of death. All this Joseph Severn 
 was to John Keats, and because of this his 
 name, too, is written in gold upon the page 
 of the immortal ones. One cannot remember 
 the one without the other, one cannot lay 
 flowers upon the grave of one without 
 scattering them upon the turf, growing above 
 the kind, true heart of the other. The kind, 
 faithful heart is as great as the marvellous 
 genius which so burned and glowed that it 
 can never be forgotten. 
 
 And on this second headstone are written 
 words which touch one s heart as deeply as 
 those on the grave without a name, but they 
 move one in a happier way. 
 
 " To the Memory of Joseph Severn, devoted 
 
28 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 friend and death-bed companion of John 
 Keats, whom he lived to see numbered 
 among the immortal poets of England." 
 
 It seemed like a happy ending to a sad 
 story. Through the long anxious days of 
 growing illness and pain, made heavier by 
 blighted hopes and ambitions, Joseph Severn 
 kept near his friend. It was he who was with 
 him when he saw the blood upon the hand 
 kerchief he had held to his lips, and said, " I 
 know the colour of that blood. It is arterial 
 blood. It is my death warrant." It was he 
 who, watching him through the dreadful ex 
 hausted nights when his hair was dank with 
 cold, heavy sweat, sketched, while he lay in 
 one of his deep, death-like sleeps, the face 
 lying upon the pillow which is reproduced as 
 the frontispiece of his poems. It was he who 
 heard his earliest plaints, and watched him 
 until the very end, when he died, believing 
 that his poor life had been a broken bubble 
 gone for nought. But Severn lived many 
 years afterwards. He saw the ripening of 
 the harvest his poor friend never gathered, 
 and he rejoiced while he mourned for him, 
 and felt his own life more complete, and 
 worth the living. It must have seemed to 
 him that it was almost his harvest too. 
 
 An artist " eminent for his representation 
 
THE DAUGHTER OF THE CUSTODIAN. 29 
 
 of Italian life and nature," his headstone tells 
 us, " British Consul of Rome, and officer of 
 the Crown of Italy in recognition of his 
 services to Freedom and Humanity." 
 
 He lived a fine and useful life of his own, 
 he had an art and a career; he lived to be an 
 old man, but I think that perhaps in the 
 depths of his generous heart he liked best to 
 think of himself as the faithful friend whom 
 poor John Keats clung to, and looked last 
 on when he died. 
 
 His headstone was erected by a number of 
 people, who loved and revered the memory 
 of the friend who was so gentle and so true. 
 
 And it touched and pleased me so much 
 to see that the list engraved upon the back 
 of the stone was headed with names all 
 Americans know and are proud of. 
 
 As I passed round to read these I laid my 
 hand softly on the stone without a name 
 when my companions were not looking. 
 
 "You are immortal now," I said. And 
 afterwards I touched even more softly the 
 headstone placed so near. 
 
 "Constant friend," I thought, "true 
 heart ; who does not love you and is not 
 grateful." You will not be forgotten either." 
 
 The custodian s little daughter did not 
 
30 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 know the story the turf covered. I daresay 
 she often wondered why the forestieri were 
 so fond of visiting the graves of signori who 
 wrote books, why they laid so many violets 
 on them, and sometimes carried away a leaf, 
 or a few blades of grass as if they were pre 
 cious, and why, above all, they looked sad 
 and reverent, and spoke to each other in 
 such low tones, as if the poet, who had 
 been buried a lifetime ago, was some near 
 friend who had just been covered with the 
 earth. 
 
 But she had seen it all so often that she 
 was quite accustomed to it, and usually occu 
 pied her time in innocent inspection and 
 admiration of the pretty things the signoras 
 wore. She had spent her little life under the 
 cypresses and among the graves, and they 
 seemed to her quite ordinary surroundings. 
 While I was standing by the first grave I 
 felt something touch me gently, even cares 
 singly. The child had drawn quite near me, 
 and it was her small hand. Bright as the 
 day was it was rather cold while driving, and 
 I wore a long black plush mantle, bordered 
 with soft black fox fur, and which had very 
 long sleeves of a heavy brocade which fell- 
 from my shoulders to the bottom of the 
 cloak. It was this which had attracted her 
 
THE DAUGHTER OF THE CUSTODIAN. 31 
 
 attention, and she had put her little hand 
 out, and was stroking the plush and fur. 
 
 " Molto, molto bella " (very, very beautiful), 
 I heard her whisper quite reverently to her 
 self. 
 
 The little hand felt so gentle and caressing, 
 and she seemed so pleased, that I leaned a 
 little nearer to her and then looked down into 
 her pretty childish face and smiled, so that 
 she would know I did not mind her caressing 
 what she thought so nice. She understood 
 what the little movement and smile meant, 
 and she looked simply delighted. She gave 
 herself up to examining me, touching the 
 plush and fur admiringly, and lifting the long, 
 falling sleeves to look at the heavy brocade, 
 talking softly to herself in Italian all the 
 time. 
 
 "But what a beautiful mantle," she whis 
 pered. " I have never seen such a beautiful 
 thing. This that it is made of is far more 
 splendid than velvet; it is so soft and thick. 
 And what long, soft fur ; and so much. The 
 Signora must be a very grand lady. And 
 what beautiful, soft feathers all round her 
 hat ! " 
 
 I did not hear her say all this myself. I 
 only heard the "Molto, molto bella," and 
 noticed that she continued whispering as she 
 
32 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 stroked my cloak. It was my Italian com 
 panion who heard her, and told me after 
 wards. 
 
 She turned to this lady next, I heard, and 
 found a great deal to admire in her attire. 
 She wore a black cloth dress, which was 
 trimmed with black and gold, and it was this 
 trimming our small guide found so splendid. 
 
 " You you are dressed in gold/ she said : 
 " in real gold. And you have even a bonnet 
 like your dress. The blonde Signora is 
 dressed all in soft fur and something that is 
 much more beautiful than velvet ; and you 
 are in gold. How rich you must be ! " 
 
 Then, my companion told me, she looked 
 from one to the other of us curiously, and 
 rather pityingly. 
 
 " But you have no earrings," she said. 
 " Why have you no earrings ? " 
 
 "We do not wear them," answered the 
 young lady. 
 
 " I have earrings," the child said, " I wear 
 them always." And she touched the large 
 gold hoops in her ears. " How strange that 
 the Signoras who are so rich and have such 
 beautiful clothes do not wear any ! " 
 
 I do not know whether she thought that 
 we might be a little mad as $&& forestieri 
 sometimes were or whether the idea sug- 
 
THE DAUGHTER OF THE CUSTODIAN. 33 
 
 gested itself to her that we had spent all our 
 money on real gold frocks and stuffs that 
 were more splendid than velvet, but it is cer 
 tain that she felt sorry for us. Quite a gleam 
 of light relieved her expression as she looked 
 at my English friend and pointed to her 
 ears. 
 
 " But the other Signora," she exclaimed, 
 " she has earrings ! " 
 
 One of us at least had earrings, and that 
 somewhat lightened her innocent anxiety. 
 Bright as her smiling, dark-eyed face was 
 and lightly as she tripped before us to lead 
 the way, she did not look very strong, and I 
 could not help noticing that she had rather a 
 troublesome cough. 
 
 " Have you any brothers and sisters ? " we 
 asked. 
 
 " Not now," she answered. " There were 
 seven of us ; but all have died but me. One 
 baby died only a month ago." 
 
 " You have a bad cough," my companion 
 had said, as we were crossing from one ceme 
 tery to the other. 
 
 " Una tossa nervosa " (a nervous cough), 
 she said, quite cheerfully. 
 
 " But you must take care of it, and not let 
 it get worse." 
 
 Before I returned to the carriage I put 
 
 D 
 
34 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 some pieces of silver in her little hand. One 
 always gives money to a custodian, and it 
 pleased me to put more in the small hand 
 than I should have placed in the larger one. 
 
 " Grazie tanto, Signora ! Grazie tanto ! " 
 she said, looking up at me with the prettiest 
 possible of brilliant smiles. " Buon giorno." 
 
 She ran away in the sunshine, turning to 
 smile again and nod her little dark head to 
 us gaily and gratefully. Her mother was 
 waiting for her, and we saw the child showing 
 her the money with delighted gestures. They 
 were standing away from the cypresses, out 
 side of the grey walls, in the bright, warm 
 Italian sunshine. And I was glad as I drove 
 away that it was in the brightness and not in 
 the shadow that I saw the last of the childish 
 figure of the custodian s little daughter. 
 
A PRETTY ROMAN BEGGAR. 
 
 THE dearest thing I saw in Florence the 
 last time I was there, was a delightful little 
 American boy of seven, and one of the most 
 charming and suggestive in Rome was a small 
 fellow about the same age, who sat surrounded 
 by the stately wonders and spaces of St. 
 Peter s, his bright, eager, thoughtful childface 
 upturned to his mother and father, who were 
 sitting and talking together near him. I have 
 become quite clever in recognizing American 
 and English faces, and I knew this little boy 
 was an American, and there was something 
 in his clear, wide-awake eyes that made me 
 want to stop before him and hold out my 
 hand and say: 
 
 " Come with me, and I will show you the 
 wonderful old places I know so well, and we 
 will tell each other stories about them. We 
 can make marvellous stories in almost every 
 street, and I shall find out all sorts of new 
 things when I see the temples and palaces 
 D 2 
 
36 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 and great ruins through your seven-year old 
 American eyes." 
 
 But, as we were quite strangers to each 
 other, I could only smile at him and pass him 
 by. I had been sent away from London 
 by my doctors, because I had been ill for a 
 long time after an accident I had met with in 
 the autumn when I had been thrown out of 
 my carriage and dangerously hurt. They 
 said that London fogs were bad for me, and I 
 must travel where I could see the blue sky 
 and the sun. So I went to the south of France 
 and to Italy, and that is why I went to Rome, 
 which is one of the cities I love best of all. 
 
 I wanted to be quiet, so I went to a hotel 
 which an English- Roman told me afterwards 
 was " the oldest, the most respectable, and the 
 dullest in Rome." But that exactly pleased 
 me, and I could not be dull with three 
 interesting people with me and all old 
 Rome around me. I liked the old hotel. I 
 liked my apartments and my comfortable 
 salon, with the mysterious frescoes on the 
 ceiling the frescoes we were always trying 
 to explain to each other, as if they were 
 conundrums. Especially I was fond of the 
 old square with the elephant bearing an 
 obelisk on its back in the centre, and the 
 hoary, wonderful old Pantheon at the corner. 
 
A PRETTY ROMAN BEGGAR. 37 
 
 It was in this square I learned to know my 
 pretty beggar whom I want to make a tiny 
 sketch of to hang in my gallery of children. 
 My little Roman, so far as beauty goes, is one 
 of the most perfect small pictures I remember, 
 and he is chiefly interesting as a study be 
 cause he belongs to a profession which I think 
 does not really exist in America, and because I 
 was so curious to know what thoughts there 
 were behind hisbeautifulchild eyes, or if it could 
 be that there were no definite thoughts at all. 
 
 He was a professional beggar and a pro 
 fessional beauty, and, though he was only five 
 years old, it was quite plain that he knew 
 perfectly well what an assistance to the first 
 profession the last one was. He would have 
 been taught to beg if he had not been hand 
 some at all, but I am sure he knew that he 
 would not have had so many patrons, or half so 
 many soldi if he had not been so pretty to look 
 at. To a stranger it seems that every Roman 
 child who is not rich is taught to regard beg 
 ging as a sort of honest industry which any 
 useful infant will cultivate. After one be 
 comes somewhat accustomed to the swarms 
 of little boys and girls who rush to one s car 
 riage when it stops before a church or palace 
 and scramble clamouring up the long flights 
 of steps after one, they begin to be even a 
 
38 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 little amusing. They do not look the least 
 uncomfortable or hungry, some of them are 
 pretty, and often they are picturesque be 
 cause they are dressed in the Roman peasants 
 dress, in the hope that some artist will want 
 to put them in a picture and pay them for 
 sitting as models. And they generally appear 
 to be amusing themselves together, and seem 
 to find it rather a joke to chase after 
 these princely strangers who have nothing 
 better to do than drive about and look at 
 churches and pictures and ruins. I am con 
 vinced that they think us great simpletons, 
 but they would be sorry to see us wiser be 
 cause that would make their profession less 
 lucrative. It is their cheerful audacity which 
 makes one smile at last. They know the 
 forestieri so well (forestieri is the Italian 
 word for " foreigners "). They know that a 
 rather shy or inexperienced one will feel that 
 if a bouquet of violets is forced into his or 
 her -hand it must be paid for, so violets are 
 thrown into one s carnage, little clusters are 
 forcibly attached to the coats of masculine 
 passers-by, and it is only when one has become 
 quite hardened that one discovers how to toss 
 them back into the small basket with an amia 
 ble smile and "Non, grazie, non." There is 
 another thing they have learned, which is that 
 
A PRETTY ROMAN BEGGAR. 39 
 
 even the forestieri who do not understand 
 Italian are more than likely to know 
 French, so some of the smallest ones have 
 been taught one or perhaps two mournful 
 French phrases which they say over and over 
 again as they run after one. I shall not 
 soon forget a plump, well-fed, cheerful little 
 girl in a gay apron and Roman head-gear, 
 who trotted after me up and down a long 
 flight of steps near the Pincio, saying as fast 
 as she could " Je meurs de faim, Je meurs de 
 faim," which is the French for " I die of 
 hunger, I die of hunger." 
 
 " You little story-teller," said the English 
 lady who was with me. " You are stuffed as 
 full of macaroni as you can possibly be." 
 And, though she spoke English, the child 
 evidently recognized that she had not pro 
 duced her effect on these " Inglesi," for she 
 gave us up as a bad investment, with a sly 
 little smile. 
 
 I suppose my pretty beggar boy had been 
 a model as well as as a beggar ever since he 
 could walk, perhaps even before. His mother 
 and the woman who was always with her 
 were evidently models when they had good 
 fortune. They were handsome women who 
 wore the picturesque Roman dress, and sat 
 or stood in the sun in the old square, with 
 
40 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 baskets of violets near them, which they pro 
 fessed to sell. About them played my pretty 
 little Roman and his companion, who was 
 about the same age as himself, and almost 
 equally pretty. Both of them were dressed 
 like small copies of picturesque bandits on 
 the stage ; they had short, bright-coloured 
 jackets and knee-breeches, and bands crossed 
 round their legs, and both had broad-brimmed, 
 rather pointed hats of soft felt on their full, 
 silky, curling hair. 
 
 They were both charming, but my little 
 fellow was cither the bolder or the prettier or 
 the more coaxing of the two, I don t know 
 which it was ; but somehow he always 
 seemed to known quite well that he was my 
 favourite. He had such soft, round cheeks, 
 the colour of a very ripe peach an Indian 
 peach, perhaps, with the red showing through 
 the downy brown ; he had such a dimpling 
 laugh, and such large soft brown eyes, and 
 such a lot of thick chestnut brown curls. His 
 curls looked soft, too ; he looked soft and 
 warm all over, as if he would feel like a rabbit 
 or a squirrel if one took him in one s arms. 
 
 The first time I saw him was one after 
 noon when I was going to drive to the Pincio 
 to hear the band which plays there every day 
 from four to six. 
 
A PRETTY ROMAN BEGGAR. 41 
 
 My carriage used to wait in the courtyard 
 until I came down the stairs and got into it 
 at the foot of them ; but this day, after we 
 had driven through the entrance into the 
 square, we had to send for a cushion or 
 something which had been forgotten, and so 
 we waited, and my pretty beggar saw us. 
 
 He was very faithful to the exigencies of 
 his profession. I noticed afterwards that he 
 always stopped playing when he saw anyone 
 approaching to whom his business instincts 
 taught him he might apply, and he always 
 trotted after them quite far enough to give 
 them a fair trial. So seeing the carriage with 
 the two horses and a comparatively resplen 
 dent coachman waiting before the courtyard 
 entrance of the big hotel, and seeing that it 
 contained forestieri ladies in velvet and furs, 
 one of whom leaned against a crimson silk 
 cushion, he felt that this was a business 
 opportunity not to be neglected, and came 
 running across the square followed by his 
 companions. I suppose it was the crimson 
 cushion which caused him to single me out, 
 or perhaps he had seen me smiling at his 
 prettiness as he ran towards us in the sun 
 certainly both he and his friend directed their 
 active attention to me. 
 
 Only a little Italian beggar, and a profes- 
 
42 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 sional beauty at that, could have begged as 
 he did with such gaiety and coaxing, and 
 such perfect freedom and friendliness. It 
 was not his role to say " Je meur de faim " 
 his was a comedy part and in the company 
 of two he was the "leading gentleman/ 
 because, though his companion was almost 
 as pretty as he, and did the same things and 
 repeated the same words, one felt sure he 
 had not originated them ; I had an idea that 
 he admired his friend very much, and re 
 spected his professional talents immensely, 
 and adored him. 
 
 " Bella signora," they both clamoured 
 gaily, showing their white teeth and dimples, 
 and jumping up and down, holding out little 
 soft brown palms. " Bella, signora, uno 
 soldino uno soldino ; via, bella signora, uno 
 soldino " (beautiful lady, a little penny a 
 little penny ; oh, come now, beautiful lady, a 
 little penny). 
 
 " Via " does not literally mean " Oh, come 
 now," but I think that is the only way to put 
 it into English when a little beggar says it in 
 that coaxing, expostulatory way. Nothing 
 could possibly have been more coaxing than 
 that" via." He made it. express so much. 
 " Oh, come now/ it seemed to say, " you are 
 a miladi Inglese. You go out in a grand 
 carnage with the big horses. You drive to the 
 
A TRETTY ROMAN BEGGAR. 43 
 
 Pincio and listen to the music. You have a 
 purse full of little pennies and silver pieces in 
 your pocket. And see how pretty I am, and 
 how soft and bright my eyes are when I laugh 
 at you. Oh, come now, what do little pennies 
 matter to miladies like you ? " 
 
 And he laughed all the time, and looked 
 at me with such gay confidence in my friend 
 liness and admiration. I suppose he had 
 studied faces too long not to understand the 
 sort of smile that meant at least two or three 
 soldi. I am always being told it is wrong to 
 encourage beggars, but I am afraid I do 
 encourage them disgracefully sometimes. I 
 took a neat handful of soldi out of my purse 
 and bent over the side of the carriage, half I 
 put into one soft little brown paw and half 
 into the other, laughing into the bright 
 mellow dark eyes that laughed back at me, 
 and when I put the coins down I gave each 
 dusky soft paw a little pat. I could not 
 remember that these were small professional 
 beggars. It seemed as if Boy and the 
 Socialist were five years old again, and their 
 lovely mops of hair were dark instead of 
 golden, and they were dancing about begging 
 for pennies. No little beggars could have 
 been bolder or gayer, or more assured than 
 Boy or Socialist were. They were quite pro 
 fessional as far as I was concerned, and they 
 
44 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 were always sure they would get their soldini. 
 What an astonishing thing it would have 
 seemed to the passers-by to have seen a 
 Signora Inglese take a little Roman beggar 
 suddenly in her arms, hold him on her knee and 
 kiss his velvet cheeks but to me that would 
 have seemed the most natural thing to do. 
 These two did not often have so many soldi 
 given them at once, it was evident. They 
 looked so delighted and laughed so, and 
 gave such triumphant little hops as they 
 clamoured, " Grazie, Signora, grazie, grazie ! " 
 (" Thank you, lady, thank you, thank you/ ) 
 And then they took each other s hands and 
 scampered across the square together. Of 
 course I looked after them. I could not help 
 it. And when they reached the corner near 
 the Pantheon the " leading gentleman " had 
 one of his pretty inspirations. He checked 
 his run for a moment, and wheeled round, 
 still holding his companion s hand, and with 
 the most graceful little smiling gestures he 
 threw me a whole butterfly flight of kisses 
 and his friend did the same. 
 
 " Ah, how pretty ! " said some one in the 
 carriage. "Only a little Italian beggar could 
 do that. Imagine a London crossing sweeper 
 throwing one kisses when one gave him a 
 brown/ " 
 
A PRETTY ROMAN BEGGAR. 45 
 
 If I had been able to remain in Rome, as I 
 had planned to do, I should have had the 
 opportunity of knowing more of my fasci 
 nating little beggar. Soldi and smiles every 
 day for a few weeks would certainly have 
 made us quite intimate, and I could have 
 talked to him quite freely. I had in 
 tended to remain in Rome until after the 
 Easter fetes and ceremonies, and I was 
 beginning to feel very well and happy in 
 those first beautiful sunshine and flower- 
 flooded days of the early Roman spring. But 
 I received a letter one morning which set me 
 in a few hours on my way to America, and 
 two weeks from then my pretty Roman beggar 
 was thousands of miles away, and I walked 
 into a bed-room in my house in Washington 
 where a boy with eyes as dark as his lay wait 
 ing for me with cheeks and hands hot with 
 fever. 
 
 But before the letter came I had seen my 
 little beggar every day. Every time my 
 carriage passed out of the courtyard of the 
 hotel he came running for his soldini in the 
 most delightful spirits ; every day he and his 
 companion laughed and danced and showed 
 their dimples and white teeth and kissed their 
 hands, and every day I was rather tempted to 
 coax the leading gentleman into my carriage 
 
46 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 and take him on my knee for a drive on the 
 Pincio. I wanted also to take him to a 
 grand confectioner s on the Corso, and say 
 to him : " You may have whatever you like." 
 I wonder if he would have quite lost his little 
 wits with wonder and delight, or if he would 
 have been practical enough to fill his bright- 
 coloured bandit s jacket with sufficient indi 
 gestion to cast a slight glow over the remainder 
 of his existence after he had recovered from 
 it. 
 
 My companion always used to say a few 
 words to him for me, when I gave him his 
 soldini. 
 
 " Do you know," she asked him one day, 
 " why it is that the signora biondi gives 
 you so many soldi ? " 
 
 He smiled charmingly, but shook his 
 head, 
 
 "No, signora." 
 
 " It is because she has two bambini of her 
 own, and just now they are far, far away in 
 America, and she cannot give them soldi, so 
 she gives them to you. The signora biondi 
 loves bambini." 
 
 I was quite sure that he looked at the state 
 ment in a purely professional light, and was 
 not the least sentimental in his views of it. 
 It was evident to him that this miladi Inglese 
 
A PRETTY ROMAN BEGGAR. 47 
 
 or American had an amiable weakness which 
 might be cultivated and made most useful. 
 The " due bambini " were certainly to be 
 relied upon as a source of indefinite soldi if 
 the memory of them were encouraged with 
 smiles and little dancing skips, and plenty of 
 kisses thrown gracefully and with intention. 
 He was so far exhilarated at the prospect 
 that he beamed all over and threw me charm 
 ing kisses at once. And the next time he did 
 not wait for the carriage, but seeing me leave 
 the hotel on foot, he ran after me with greater 
 confidence than ever. 
 
 " Do you intend to beg always ? " I askpd, 
 either that time or the next that he 
 followed us. " When you are older, you 
 will be strong enough to work for yourself. 
 You will be too strong to beg. Don t you 
 think so?" 
 
 It was at that moment I wished I could have 
 seen the workings of his mind. I wanted so 
 much to know what he thought. 
 
 But it was not possible to tell. Perhaps 
 he thought the signora Inglese was making 
 a little joke and he ought to smile at 
 it as a compliment or perhaps he did 
 not wish to commit himself for fear of 
 saying the wrong thing to such excellent 
 patrons. At any rate he smiled and looked 
 
48 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 up at us both in his prettiest way and with his 
 gayest air. A smile like his as ready, and 
 bright and soft, and unprejudiced was a for 
 tune in itself. At least he was quite aware of 
 that. 
 
 I do not know whether I have made a sketch 
 of him which will make him seem real to 
 those who read it, but he is a very real thing 
 to me, though I barely understood a few 
 sentences of his language. There was some 
 soft brightness in his mellow eyes I under 
 stood, and something in his childish beautiful 
 face which somehow spoke to my heart, and 
 I cannot help believing that he will not 
 always be a beggar, but will find something 
 for his dusky little hands to do when they are 
 bigger, and that the magnetism and clever 
 ness which made him always the leader will 
 make a place for him a man need not be 
 ashamed to fill. 
 
EIGHT LITTLE PRINCES. 
 
 ONE sees them in all the photograph shops in 
 all the principal cities in Europe. Sometimes 
 they are babies in lace frocks, sometimes they 
 are little boys in sailor suits, and sometimes, 
 though they are little fellows, they are 
 dressed in military uniforms and are drawing 
 themselves up and making a fine salute to 
 some one regal or to the regiments they are 
 supposed to command. I am very fond of 
 photograph shops, and when I see a picture 
 of any of the little princes I cannot waste my 
 time on kings and queens and emperors until 
 I have looked well at my little man and made 
 up my mind that he looks happy, and as if he 
 enjoyed himself and did not mind being a 
 prince at all. One knows by heart the faces 
 of kings and queens and emperors and 
 empresses, but the little princes change each 
 year, and occasionally there is a tiny new one, 
 and that is very interesting. 
 
 I made the intimate acquaintance of five 
 delightful happy-looking plump ones in the 
 shops in the street by the Alster-Bassin, in 
 
 E 
 
5O CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN 
 
 Hamburg. There was one I even chose at 
 once for my favourite. I saw them again and 
 again in Berlin, and drove by their palace, 
 and looked up at their nursery windows, with 
 the bars before them to keep the very little 
 ones from tumbling out, and I have seen 
 their pictures so often during these last few 
 days at Prague that I have become quite fond 
 of them, and yesterday I went into a shop 
 and bought photographs of them in all sorts 
 of poses, and they are lying on my desk as I 
 write. 
 
 These five are the children of the present 
 young Emperor of Germany ; their grand 
 mother was the Princess Royal of England, 
 and so their great-grandmother is Queen 
 Victoria. 
 
 On the day of the great Jubilee procession 
 and ceremonials in London, when Boy and 
 the Socialist and I sat and watched the kings 
 and queens and princes and princesses pass 
 by in the midst of the music and great 
 pageant, there was one tall superb horseman 
 in a splendid white and gold uniform, who 
 was cheered loudly and enthusiastically, and 
 whom everyone admired. " What a hand 
 some fellow/ everyone said. " He is the 
 most royal-looking of all." He was the 
 Crown Prince of Germany, the son of the 
 
EIGHT LITTLE PRINCES. 51 
 
 good old Emperor William, and strong and 
 splendid as he looked he was even then 
 stricken with the dreadful malady which 
 ended in his death not many months later, 
 though in those few months the old Emperor 
 died, and this son when he died was the 
 Emperor himself. 
 
 It is his son who is the father of the five 
 little princes I am becoming fond of. I think 
 he must be a nice young father and love his 
 five boys. I am sure their young mamma 
 is very fond of them, too. She has a loving, 
 motherly face, and I am convinced that when 
 she has her five boys round her as she nearly 
 always has in the photographs she never 
 remembers she is an Empress at all. 
 
 I do not know the names of these little 
 princes at least I only know the name of the 
 one who is my favourite. He became my 
 favourite when I saw a darling picture of him 
 in Hamburg. He is a beautiful little fellow, 
 with a round face and laughing eyes, and a 
 great deal of curly soft blonde hair. In the 
 photograph he was dressed in a pretty white 
 sailor suit, with a blue collar and cuffs, and he 
 had short socks on his sturdy little legs, and 
 was gambolling along gaily before his mamma 
 in a stately park or garden. Perhaps it was 
 in the park at Potsdam, 
 E 2 
 
52 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 I always looked for him in all the picture 
 shops, and I always found him in some pro 
 minent place in his white sailor suit, all 
 dimples and smiles and curly fair hair. His 
 name, I find, is Eitel, and he is next in age to 
 the little Crown Prince, who, though he is not 
 much bigger, has no curls, and is graver and 
 always wears a uniform. 
 
 I have before me five photographs of these 
 small German princes, which please me im 
 mensely. They please me because they look 
 so happy, and as if they were loved and cared 
 for, not because they are the children of an 
 Emperor and Empress, but because they are 
 dear little fellows. 
 
 The one which perhaps amuses me the 
 most is called Unsere Hohenzollern, which 
 means Our Hohenzollern, Hohenzollern being 
 the name of the Emperor s family. 
 
 This photograph is that of a handsome 
 room which the young Emperor is just 
 entering. The Empress is sitting in an easy 
 chair, and on her knee is lying a tiny baby, 
 evidently the very youngest princeling of the 
 five. He is so very new a baby that he is 
 lying in his porte-enfant, which is a sort of 
 dainty lace and ribbon-trimmed cushion on 
 which very young babies in most Continental 
 countries are bound. His mamma is bending 
 
EIGHT LITTLE PRINCES. 53 
 
 over and looking at him as every mamma 
 looks at her baby as the mothers of all the 
 children who read this sketch used to look at 
 them as I used to look at Boy and the 
 Socialist before they had any hair worth 
 mentioning, or dreamed of wanting dynamos 
 and electric motors. 
 
 The Emperor has just passed through the 
 portieres, and he is as always in uniform, 
 and he is smiling as if he were very much 
 amused. I know what it is that amuses him. 
 It is the two very little princes who are next 
 in age to the baby, and who are standing on 
 their mamma s left hand near her knee. 
 Pretty Eitel, with his sailor suit and curls, is 
 on her right with his brother, the Crown 
 Prince. They look very grand indeed. The 
 little Crown Prince is in uniform, and wears 
 a sword. His left hand rests on his sword s 
 hilt, and both he and pretty Eitel are stand 
 ing very straight with their heels together, 
 and are greeting their papa with a military 
 salute. 
 
 It appears that if your papa is an Emperor 
 which does not often happen in America 
 when you see him you must salute him. Of 
 course I have no doubt you may kiss him 
 afterwards, but he is your Emperor as well as 
 your papa, and you must salute him first (I 
 
54 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 cannot tell you how pretty Eitel s bare legs 
 in his short socks look drawn together in that 
 grand military way. They are quite war 
 like.) 
 
 But the next to the youngest baby is only 
 in white frocks, and sashes and bows on his 
 shoulders, and is so young that he possibly 
 does not know what an Emperor means or 
 why one should feel it polite to scramble up 
 from one s Noah s Ark and draw one s fat legs 
 straight and put one s hand to one s forehead 
 when one s papa comes into the room. But 
 his brother, who is the next to the next from 
 the baby, and who is perhaps even as much 
 as four years old, has more experience and a 
 greater sense of propriety, and while he is 
 making his own little salute he is lifting his 
 baby brother s hand and showing him how to 
 put it to his forehead. 
 
 " See/ he seems to be saying, " when papa 
 comes in you must put your hand up like 
 this. You must salute him. That is a 
 salute." 
 
 And I am sure that is what the young 
 Emperor Papa is laughing at as he looks 
 down at these two, and in a minute out of 
 the photograph he will kiss them both. 
 
 There is another picture where the Emperor 
 looks very nice. It is Christmas Eve, and 
 
EIGHT LITTLE PRINCES. 55 
 
 one sees a large table with a splendid 
 Christmas tree. It is lighted and loaded 
 with presents, and on the table are trains of 
 cars and books, and all sorts of charming 
 things. I can read the title of one big book. 
 It is "Militair Bilderbuch." It is full of 
 pictures of military scenes, I suppose. The 
 Germans are a nation of soldiers. One little 
 prince sits on a spirited rocking-horse with a 
 drawn sword over his shoulder. He looks as 
 if he were going to prance into battle imme 
 diately. The Empress has one arm round 
 the Crown Prince, one round her fourth baby, 
 and pretty Eitel stands before her showing 
 her a box full of soldiers. Just near her 
 stands the Emperor, and he is taking a toy 
 trumpet from the Christmas tree and is going 
 to give it to the baby he has on his arm, and 
 who has grown out of his porte-enfant and 
 has hair, and a sash, and holds out his hands 
 joyfully for the trumpet. 
 
 In another picture, which is called " Das 
 neue Bruderchen " (the new little brother) 
 the Empress is showing the new baby Prince 
 to the other four, who are all crowding round 
 him. There are soldiers and cannons on the 
 floor, and the spirited rocking-horse has 
 stopped prancing, and is looking on gravely, 
 even thoughtfully. In another all five are 
 
56 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 round a table. The Crown Prince stands, 
 the baby sits with a cushion behind him and 
 plays on a drum, while pretty Eitel fires a 
 cannon at a fortress, most valiantly defended 
 by lead soldiers, who would evidently rather 
 perish than surrender. That picture is called 
 " Unsere Lieblinge," which means " Our 
 Darlings." There is still another where 
 pretty Eitel and his brother sit in a boat on 
 an ornamental lake, while their papa stands 
 with their mamma looking on, and taking 
 care of two younger ones. I have one, too, 
 of the Emperor with his little soldier Crown 
 Prince leaning against his knee and there is 
 yet another where they ride on horseback 
 side by side. I have studied all these pictures, 
 and I am quite sure that these five little 
 princes are not only happy and loved in 
 photographs, but when they are in their own 
 homes and are simply little boys and not an 
 Emperor s sons. 
 
 I have two pictures of another Prince, but 
 he is older than the little Germans, and he 
 has a dark handsome face, with a rather sad 
 and thoughtful look particularly in the last 
 picture where his boyish sailor suit and hat 
 are laid aside, and he is in uniform, and 
 leaning on his sword. 
 
 I have been interested in him because I 
 know he has not been a happy little prince, 
 
EIGHT LITTLE PRINCES. 57 
 
 and I am afraid he cannot be a happy young 
 king. The winter of the jubilee year I took 
 Boy and the Socialist to Italy. Boy had been 
 there before, but the Socialist had not, and 
 that time I took them for a special reason. 
 I had heard of a wonderful French school 
 which had been established forty years, and 
 whose master, a fine old Frenchman, had pre 
 pared boys for colleges in England, in France, 
 in Germany, and in America. It seemed a 
 droll thing to go to Florence that one s boys 
 might learn French, but I had heard such 
 fine things of this old master s affection 
 ate, strong generalship of his pupils, that I 
 made this long journey and sent my boys to 
 him. 
 
 It was then I began to see this young 
 prince, and be interested in him. 
 
 He was the young Prince of Servia, and 
 the fine old Frenchman taught him also, so 
 we naturally should have heard of him even 
 if we had not seen him. But we saw him 
 often. Poor boy, he had a bad father and a 
 beautiful mother, who was made very un 
 happy. She was Queen Natalie, and she was 
 young and lovely, and adored her boy, and 
 had, indeed, we heard, come to Florence be 
 cause she wished to take care of him herself, 
 and not let him remain exposed to the 
 example of unmanliness and evil. It was 
 
58 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 very sad. It seemed that between father and 
 mother there was always a struggle for the 
 poor little prince, but it was his beautiful 
 mother he loved and wished to be with. 
 
 He was always with her. We had our 
 " Apartmente Mobiliate" in a large house on 
 the Lung Arno Nuovo, and in its big court 
 yard was the Russian church. The poor 
 Queen Natalie was very devout, and went 
 very often to church, and the young Prince 
 always went with her. He was about twelve 
 years old, a tall, slender boy, with soft dark 
 eyes like his mother s. We used to hear the 
 carriage roll into the courtyard, and then we 
 often looked out of the dining-room window 
 and saw the two get out and go into the 
 church together. Quite near us was the 
 Caseine, the beautiful park by the river Arno, 
 which is the fashionable drive and promenade, 
 and whereon Sunday the military band plays. 
 When we drove there we often saw the Prince 
 and his mother, and more than once we 
 passed them as they walked side by side. 
 
 When Queen Natalie returned to Servia, 
 which is a small royalty which is dependent 
 upon Russia, the struggle between herself and 
 King Milan the Prince s father began more 
 fiercely than ever. The Queen Natalie was 
 exiled from Servia, and Prince Alexander 
 
EIGHT LITTLE PRINCES. 59 
 
 taken from her. But he was not happy away 
 from his mother, he was so unhappy, in fact, 
 that he became very ill. But his mother was 
 courageous and determined, and would not 
 give her boy up. Fortunately the Czar 
 of Russia was her friend, and at last King 
 Milan was deposed, and Queen Natalie allowed 
 to return and live with her boy again. He 
 is now the boy King of his small country, 
 but it is his Ministers who rule for him. And 
 as I look at this last picture of him I see his 
 face has grown much graver and older than 
 it was when I used to see it in Florence, and 
 there is a look in his dark eyes which makes 
 me wonder if he does not talk very thought 
 fully to his beautiful mother sometimes, and 
 ask her if she can tell him how a boy can 
 best learn to be a king. 
 
 The other little prince who, dressed in a 
 white frock, rests his baby head against his 
 mother s cheek, and clings to her with tiny 
 hands is not really a prince, after all, but a 
 King a poor, innocent baby King, with no 
 oneto protect him but his brave young mother. 
 
 I am never happy about him. I am always 
 sorry for him. He touches me to the very 
 heart. He is the little King of Spain. He 
 never saw his father he was born after his 
 death. Poor baby, born with the weight of a 
 
60 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 crown upon his head. And it is not a light 
 weight to bear in Spain. Its wearer has to 
 govern a passionate, tumultuous, rebellious 
 people, divided amongst themselves, subtle 
 and clever at intrigue and plot, who would not 
 be sorry for the five- year-old baby, who, if he 
 is strong enough to grow up to be a young 
 man, will be called upon to face and to try to 
 control all this. And he is not a strong little 
 prince. He has always been delicate, and not 
 very long ago was so ill that everyone thought 
 he would die, and one can imagine the suffer 
 ing of those days for the poor mother watch 
 ing over his bed, soothing his pain, kissing his 
 poor little hot forehead, and praying only that 
 her baby might be well again and smile at her 
 once more, while she knew that the grand, 
 clever, Court Ministers were only waiting to 
 see whether the King would live or die. I 
 think sometimes she must have longed to 
 snatch him away from all those watching eyes, 
 and carry him into some pretty room where 
 she could hold him in her arms and rock him 
 to sleep all by herself, and talk soft, coaxing, 
 soothing nonsense to him, and never let him 
 hear anyone say, " Your Majesty." 
 
 I knew a bright, clever American woman 
 who had seen this little King often under very 
 interesting circumstances. 
 
EIGHT LITTLE PRINCES. 6l 
 
 There are not many people even Spaniards 
 who see him in the same way. She had 
 talked to him and shown him pictures, and 
 she told me some very pretty stories about 
 him. Somehow it rather touched me when 
 she described this white-frocked baby s en 
 trance into a room, and his holding out his 
 tiny hand to be kissed, and her playful talk 
 with him in which she addressed him always 
 as " Your Majesty. " It would have seemed 
 so much more natural to have picked him up 
 in one s arms and kissed him on his soft cheeks 
 and on his soft neck, and to have held him 
 on one s knee and played with him. But of 
 course it would be very improper to romp 
 with a King, and especially a King of Spain. 
 
 But there is one thing even Kings and 
 Princes cannot be deprived of even by eti 
 quette that is a mother. All the eight I 
 write of have as much luxury of that sort as 
 if they were not Royal at all. And this little 
 King of Spain has one of the tenderest, and 
 wisest, and sweetest. She lives only to guard 
 and love and care for this helpless little King. 
 She is young and fair, and a Queen, but she 
 does not care for the world. She is so brave, 
 and so gentle, and so wise that even her 
 enemies and her baby s foes have learned to 
 respect her and know that she is not to be 
 
62 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 trifled with. It is said that even the gentlest, 
 most timid, creature will be brave when its 
 little ones are in danger even a soft- eyed 
 deer will stand at bay. This young Queen 
 Mother is brave like that, and I think that 
 everyone with a kind heart watches her with 
 interest, and hopes that her sweet courage and 
 faithfulness will be rewarded, and her boy will 
 live to wear his crown through a long life, 
 and be the best King that Spain has ever 
 known. 
 
 The eighth Prince is not a little one now. 
 He is twenty, or twenty-one years old, but I 
 think of him as still a boy, because I have 
 usually seen his boy pictures. He is the 
 Prince Royal of Italy, and his name is Victor 
 Emanuel Vittorio Emanuele in Italian. 
 After all I think it is his beautiful mother, 
 Queen Margherita, who gives me my interest 
 in him. In the Italian cities one sees so many 
 pictures of her with the ropes of her famous 
 pearls wound round and round her throat. 
 She has made herself so beloved by the 
 people, because she is so sweet, and also, I 
 have no doubt, because she has been such a 
 good mother, and has loved her one boy so 
 dearly. 
 
 I was at Milan a few months ago, and I 
 drove out to Monza, which is one of the Royal 
 
EIGHT LITTLE PRINCES. 63 
 
 summer villas. It is a drive of about two 
 hours from Milan, and the afternoon was one 
 I shall not forget. It was early spring in 
 Italy, and the long winding drive through the 
 beautiful park where troops of little fawns and 
 quite unalarmed deer made their way through 
 the young trees and long grass, looking back 
 at us with soft wonder, was a lovely thing to 
 remember. The ground was yellow with 
 countless myriads of primroses, and the air 
 was sweet with the breath of as many violets. 
 I stopped the carnage more than once, and 
 we got out and filled the drapery of our 
 dresses with the pale yellow and deep blue 
 blossoms enough to fill our rooms in the 
 hotel to overflowing. 
 
 The King and Queen were in Rome, and 
 the Villa was open to visitors. So we went 
 through it through all the beautiful saloons 
 and the rest. And it was in the Queen s 
 bedroom that I was assured that this Prince 
 at least must have been a happy one as 
 happy as love could make him. There w r ere 
 pictures of him everywhere. His. was the 
 principal picture that hung on the walls. He 
 must have had his portrait painted every 
 year since he was born. When Queen 
 Margherita opens her beautiful eyes in the 
 morning she sees him at all ages. As a baby 
 
64 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 in a long lace frock, as a baby in a short one 
 as a tiny boy, as a bigger one. He is repre 
 sented from stage to stage until he stands in 
 his uniform a schoolboy prince. That pretty 
 sumptuous room the bedroom of a Queen 
 with all those pictures of a boy loved every 
 year from his babyhood with that love which 
 makes every mother a Queen and every Queen 
 only a sweet woman that pretty bedroom 
 told its own story of a happy prince who may 
 be a good king. 
 
 These are the eight Princes I feel as if I 
 know though they do not know me, and even 
 in the most Republican country in the world 
 even in America which does not believe in 
 kings I am sure there is no one who will not 
 say in thinking of these boys, " God keep the 
 little princes and help them to care for their 
 people, and God bless the Queens who are 
 their Mothers." 
 
ONE WHO LIVED LONG, LONG 
 AGO. 
 
 IT would be very difficult to tell anything at 
 all definite about her. One can only try to 
 imagine what she was like, what she thought, 
 what she did, and how her young life was 
 passed. And imagination, however powerful, 
 can scarcely be relied on to depict to one 
 very clearly and truly the things that hap 
 pened more than 1800 years ago. 
 
 More than 1800 years ago she died in the 
 ancient city of Pompeii, an awful tragic death, 
 which 2000 people shared with her, perishing 
 in the most overwhelming catastrophe the 
 world has ever known. And yet to-day one 
 can pass through the streets she walked about 
 in, standing in the " peristylium " or court of 
 the house which was, perhaps, the one she 
 lived in, and where her favourite flowers 
 grew ; and where she amused herself by 
 watching the gold fishes in the little oblong 
 stone-lined pool, which we are told was called 
 the Piscina. One sees, perhaps, her very own 
 
 F 
 
66 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 little bedroom, where she slept with her play 
 things about her, as rosy and peaceful as 
 other little girls sleep to-day in their bed 
 rooms in London or New York. And one 
 can stand and look down pityingly at the 
 slender lava and ash-encrusted little form, 
 which was all that the great eruption of 
 Mount Vesuvius on the 24th of August, A.D. 
 79, left of her childish body. She is lying 
 by her mother, just as she fell when they 
 were trying to escape among the blinding 
 showers of hot ashes, red-hot lapilli, or small 
 fragments of pumice-stone, and the sudden 
 deluge of boiling water, which the great vol 
 cano poured forth alternately, and sometimes 
 all at once, and which turned the beautiful 
 clay into black night, filled the air with shrieks 
 of terror, and the narrow streets with be 
 wildered, agonized people losing their way 
 and stumbling in the horrible darkness as 
 they were flying for their lives. 
 
 Many hundred years she lay in the dark 
 ness with the gay, luxurious little city she 
 had lived in, and which the quaking earth 
 had broken into ruins and the burning moun 
 tain had covered with shower after shower oi 
 lapilli and ashes until it was buried twenty 
 feet deep, no trace of it left to show that it 
 had ever existed. 
 
ONE WHO LIVED LONG, LONG AGO. 67 
 
 When one stands in the small museum and 
 looks down at the slender, lava-encrusted 
 frame, which looks more like a curiously- 
 rough grey image than anything else, it is 
 difficult to think of it as the body of a real, 
 living young creature, warm and soft and 
 full of movement and colour. And yet she 
 was so eighteen hundred and eleven years 
 ago. 
 
 If she had died as others do, she would 
 have been dust centuries ago, but as it is, she 
 lies in the tiny Pompeii museum, in a glass 
 case, near that other lava-encrusted image 
 which is supposed to have been her mother, 
 and with other like images near her, and one 
 stands and looks at her with thrilled wonder, 
 and tries to imagine what she looked like, 
 what her short life was, and if all was quickly 
 over when she fell, amid the stifling ashes, 
 the sulphurous vapour, the sudden unnatural 
 gusts of hot wind, the flashes of ghastly 
 lightning, and the awful volcano s thunder. 
 
 In a case near her there is a poor dog with 
 what seems to have been quite a beautiful 
 collar round his neck. He is lying in a dis 
 torted position on his back, his feet in the 
 air, and his mouth open as if he had died on 
 giving a last yelp of terror and pain. I won 
 dered if perhaps he had been her dog, and I 
 F 2 
 
68 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 hoped he was not, or that she had not heard 
 his poor cry for the help which she could not 
 give. 
 
 It was her figure which was my companion 
 all the soft sunny day as I wandered through 
 the once brilliant little city where she had 
 lived and died. My friends did not see her, 
 but I did, and fancied even that I felt the 
 touch of her little hand. No one could hear 
 her, for she moved so softly. But when I 
 imagined that she walked with me she was 
 no longer a poor little grey lava-encrusted 
 thing, but supple and pretty and soft, and 
 clothed in the delicate, graceful garments she 
 wore so long ago or at least as nearly as 
 my imagination, assisted by Alma Tadema s 
 beautiful pictures, could array her. 
 
 But for those wonderful pictures I think I 
 could not have really called her to life, but 
 remembering them I made a little shadow 
 which seemed almost more than a shadow 
 a slender figure, in a graceful little white 
 tunic falling in simple, lovely folds, and with 
 a border of gold or purple, or purple and gold 
 together. She had small sandals on her 
 slim feet, and a light wreath of flowers on her 
 delicate head. As for her face, I only seemed 
 to see that it was sweet and innocent and 
 fair, that there was a childish rose bloom on 
 
ONE WHO LIVED LONG, LONG AGO. 69 
 
 her cheeks, that her eyes were deep and 
 shadowy under their long lashes, and that 
 she had blue-black hair, which was not long, 
 but waved softly about her head and neck 
 and shaded her forehead a little, as it might 
 if she lived in the present day. 
 
 She was my guide, and she seemed to tell 
 me many things and make the dead ancient 
 city live again, though I do not know how I 
 understood her, for I think she used to speak 
 Latin when she was alive. But there was a 
 guide in uniform who led our party, and as 
 he explained things in French, perhaps I 
 stole the words from him and altered them 
 and added to them, and translated them into 
 the music of the voice that ceased speaking 
 1 8 1 1 years ago. 
 
 I have many interesting days in my life 
 to remember, but among them all there is 
 not one which stands out as a memory so 
 utterly, strangely beautiful and absorbing as 
 that day spent rambling through the streets 
 and ruins of a long, long dead city warmly 
 flooded with an Italian sun. It must have 
 been such a gay and brilliant little place, 
 with its richly coloured and decorated houses, 
 their flower-wreathed red or yellow columns, 
 their bright court-yards, their fountains and 
 vines, the graceful temples and theatres and 
 
70 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 villas, the great mountain behind, the blue 
 Mediterranean at its feet. 
 
 " It was very beautiful," I thought my little 
 shadow told me. " The people were so gay 
 and rich. It was not so stately and magnifi 
 cent as Rome, but it was so bright and luxu 
 rious. There were so many flowers every 
 where, the sky was always so blue and the 
 sun so warm. We lived so much out of doors, 
 we used to sit and work and take our meals 
 in the open court, and the wine cups were 
 wreathed with flowers, and garlands hung 
 from the columns and were twined about 
 them, and we wore fresh garlands on our heads 
 every one wore them when there was 
 gaiety and feasting. 
 
 " You were never afraid of the great moun 
 tain then," I said, and I looked up at it as it 
 towered so near us, dark and bare-looking 
 and sullen with its cloud of smoke rolling 
 upward and about its summit. 
 
 " No one was afraid of it then particularly 
 not the children. We used to hear that years 
 before when some of us were not born 
 there had been a great earthquake which 
 the mountain had caused, but it seemed so 
 quiet and peaceful, covered with beautiful 
 meadows, and the earthquake seemed to us 
 to have been so long ago that it would have 
 
ONE WHO LIVED LONG, LONG AGO. 71 
 
 seemed only like a legend if we had not been 
 able to see some of the ruins it had made and 
 the Forum which was being rebuilt. It was 
 not finished when the great eruption came, 
 which burned everything. When you go into 
 it to-day you will see the unfinished columns 
 just as the slaves left them when they turned 
 and fled into the darkness to try to save 
 their lives." 
 
 And then there came to my mind a para 
 graph I remembered reading in Bulwer s 
 " Last Days of Pompeii." 
 
 " At one of the public edifices appropriated 
 to the business of the city, workmen were em 
 ployed upon the columns, and you heard the 
 noise of their labour every now and then, 
 rising above the hum of the multitude. The 
 columns are unfinished to this day." 
 
 We went into the ruins of the Forum the 
 great mart and gathering place of those an 
 cient days and saw the rows of incompleted 
 pillars, standing still. To one who was not 
 told their story they would look as if they 
 had all been broken smoothly off at about 
 the same height. 
 
 " It was very busy and gay here once," my 
 small shadow seemed to tell me. " There 
 were such crowds of people coming and going. 
 They came to meet each other if they were 
 
?2 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 rich and idle, to do all sorts of business, to 
 buy and sell, to saunter and look on, to sit 
 and eat and drink and talk over all that hap 
 pened. The magistrates decided cases here. 
 There was the Temple of Jupiter, where the 
 Senators met. The garments worn were so 
 graceful and so rich. There was so much 
 purple and gold and ornament. The clasps 
 and girdles of the rich ones sparkled with jewels 
 and they wore such splendid rings and chains 
 There was so much luxury and pleasure and 
 the people seemed to enjoy themselves so. 
 This place used to seem like a great brilliant 
 fair." 
 
 One hears so much of the past luxuries and 
 splendours of this small dead city that in 
 visiting it one wonders continually how this 
 luxury exhibited itself. The streets are so 
 very narrow that an ordinary modern carriage 
 could not pass through them. In the days 
 when people drove through the narrow streets 
 two-wheeled chariots were used one sees to 
 day the deep grooves worn by the wheels into 
 the stone of the pavement we are told that 
 there were numbers of such chariots, and that 
 they were very elegant and elaborate in their 
 artistic decoration, but how it would be pos 
 sible for two to pass each other, when the 
 worn grooves seem to prove there was barely 
 
ONE WHO LIVED LONG, LONG AGO. 73 
 
 room for the wheels of one, is a mystery 
 which appears unexplained. Our guide could 
 not tell us, and as he could not I could not 
 imagine the answer my shadow might have 
 given. 
 
 And yet we are told that the streets were 
 brilliant once that they were filled with 
 richly-attired people, jewelled and clad in 
 Tyrian dyes : that beautiful women, gracefully 
 veiled, passed through them followed by slaves, 
 that the shops glittered with wonderful and 
 beautiful things, that one caught glimpses of 
 fountains and exquisite temples and trium 
 phal arches, that all was brightness and 
 grace and colour and wealth of life. To-day 
 one only sees the narrow streets, the broken 
 columns, the fallen temples and the ruins of 
 the houses that were their owners tombs 1800 
 years ago. 
 
 Though my shadow companion could not 
 make me understand what her answers might 
 have been to some of the questions I should 
 have liked to ask, and which neither my 
 imagination nor the uniformed guide could 
 reply to, yet I think her presence helped 
 me to give some fancied life and colour to 
 the ruined houses, and made them some 
 thing as they might have been when they 
 were homes. 
 
74 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 Through street after narrow street we 
 walked, through houses and temples, through 
 forums and once sumptuous baths and 
 theatres. The excavations which are made 
 by the government are still going on. The 
 silent streets, the ruins themselves seem to 
 be kept swept and in order. But for the 
 broken halls and columns, the roofless build 
 ings left open to the sunshine, all is so free 
 from obstacles and rubbish that one says 
 to one s self again and again, " Eighteen cen 
 turies ! eighteen centuries since Pompeiian 
 feet trod these stones." 
 
 The large streets are called " Strada," the 
 smaller ones " Vicolo." The Strada di Mer- 
 curio (the Street of Mercury), the Strada della 
 Fortuna (the Street of Fortune), the Strada 
 dell Abbondanza (the Street of Abundance), 
 the Strada delle Terme (Street of the Baths), 
 Strada del Faro (Street of the Forum), the 
 Vicolo del Fauno (Little street of the Faun), 
 Vicolo del Balcone Pensile (Street of the 
 Hanging Balcony). 
 
 These are of course only a few of the 
 names. All the houses have their names 
 also, most of them taken from some statue or 
 painting which decorated them. Some of 
 them given by the scientific excavators, and 
 were taken from seal or signet ring found in 
 the ruins. 
 
ONE WHO LIVED LONG, LONG AGO. 75 
 
 There is the Casa di Apollo (House of 
 Apollo) the House of Adonis, the House of 
 Castor and Pollux, the House of the Faun, 
 the House of the Little Fountain, and of the 
 Great Fountain, the House of the Tragic 
 Poet, the House of Pansa, the House of Sal- 
 lust, the House of the Centaur. They are 
 all names like these. 
 
 In the present day when a man builds a 
 house he builds it solely after his own tastes 
 and fancies. His entrance hall is square or 
 oblong or irregular as he pleases, he builds 
 as many storeys as he is inclined to mount, 
 he places his dining-room, his bed-room, 
 and library just where he thinks best, In 
 other times there seems to have been an idea 
 that the houses men lived in should naturally 
 be as much alike as the shells on the backs 
 of snails and tortoises are like each other. 
 In London one sees rows and rows of melan 
 choly structures all exactly the same ; one 
 sees them in New York, though there they 
 are not smoke-begrimed all to one hopelessly 
 dingy shade. And in Pompeii one passes 
 from street to street and finds in all the houses 
 the one plan. 
 
 One enters through a narrow passage the 
 vestibulum, which leads one to a court, which 
 was called the "atrium," and which has in 
 the centre a sort of square, shallow pool 
 
/6 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 made in the mosaic pavement to receive the 
 rain water which emptied itself into it from 
 the aperture in the sloping roof. This was 
 called the " impluvium/ At the opposite 
 end of this " atrium " was a room called the 
 " tablinum," and all round it tiny rooms 
 which, in modern days, would seem scarcely 
 more than closets. But it was the centre 
 court or " peristylium " where the people 
 really lived, and which I am sure they must 
 have felt to be truly their home. Surely 
 they could not have spent much time in the 
 tiny rooms, which had no windows, and no 
 doors to close only draperies to hang over 
 them. 
 
 But the " peristyle " was open to the sun 
 shine and the blue Southern Italian sky. 
 There was a colonnade around it, whose 
 columns were garlanded with flowers. The 
 centre was a garden. There was the tiny 
 piscina with the goldfish; there were pedes 
 tals with vases of brilliant flowers upon them ; 
 perhaps there was a fountain, and sometimes 
 a graceful statue. 
 
 Around this peristyle there were other 
 tiny rooms in which the people of the house 
 must have slept. They used to sit in the 
 shade of the colonnade and work or receive 
 their guests there. 
 
ONE WHO LIVED LONG, LONG AGO. 77 
 
 I tried to imagine one of these houses as 
 it was when my little shadow, with the blue- 
 black hair and deep soft eyes and the white 
 tunic, played in the peristylium. I tried to 
 make a picture of the red and yellow columns, 
 the gay colours, the frescoes, the rich draperies, 
 the mosaic pavements, the graceful couches 
 of bronze ornamented with gold and silver, 
 the wonderful sumptuous stuffs thrown over 
 them. But though with the help of what I 
 had heard and read and seen I could make 
 a sort of half antique Roman, half antique 
 Grecian picture, I could not find in it very 
 definite surroundings for my little girl. What 
 did children do eighteen hundred years ago ? 
 Does any one really know? I think there 
 were no antique Pompeiian dolls excavated, 
 I saw none in the museum. But surely she 
 had something of wood or stone or some 
 composition, which was made in the form of 
 a miniature child, and which she could hold 
 in her arms and sing to sleep, and dress 
 when it awakened, in a doll s tunic, and san 
 dals and girdle, and for whose head she could 
 twine a tiny garland of flowers. Ah, it must 
 have been so even eighteen hundred and 
 eleven years ago. 
 
 She had no books to read ; even the grown 
 up people had scarcely any. " A very small 
 
78 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 room," we are told, " was sufficient to contain 
 the few rolls of papyrus which the ancients 
 deemed a notable collection of books." She 
 must have looked at the frescoes on the 
 walls, the pictured legends of gods and 
 goddesses, and told herself stories about 
 them. Perhaps her mother told her about 
 them, too, and perhaps there was some 
 favourite slave a sort of Pompeiian Uncle 
 Remus who could tell stories of goddesses 
 and gods, of Fauns and Satyrs, and of his 
 own country from which he had perhaps 
 been taken as a prisoner of war. 
 
 For the rest she had the flowers and the 
 goldfish, it may be, some birds or a pet dog 
 with a golden collar. 
 
 " There was the beautiful sea, too," I fancied 
 her saying. " It was as blue as the sky, and 
 there were ships coming and going from 
 strange countries. And we loved the moun 
 tain then. It was beautiful, too. It was 
 covered with lovely soft green meadows, and 
 the most fertile vineyards were upon it. The 
 grapes in them were larger and more purple, 
 and sweeter than those that grew anywhere 
 else. Only at the very top it was sterile, 
 and the earth was like ashes, and the rocks 
 were blackened as if they had been burned. 
 Wise men who had climbed to look at them 
 
ONE WHO LIVED LONG, LONG AGO. 79 
 
 used to say strange things about them, and 
 tell strange stones. They said that it might 
 once have been a volcano, one of the moun 
 tains that are filled with fire, and which 
 sometimes spout forth flames and showers of 
 boiling water and molten stones. They were 
 stories which made me afraid, but I could 
 not help drawing near to listen when they 
 talked ; but I did not believe that ever there 
 had been a time when our beautiful green 
 mountain had been so terrible. The children 
 used to talk about it among themselves, and 
 speak of the soft grass and the flowers that 
 grew on it, and the sweet purple and white 
 grapes in the vineyards, and say it must be 
 all a philosopher s legend and could not be 
 true." 
 
 We went to the wonderful baths where the 
 rich and idle spent the greater part of their 
 days lounging, talking, listening to the read 
 ing of some poet, and passing under the 
 hands of slaves through the luxurious pro 
 cesses of bathing. We saw the public foun 
 tains at the ends of the streets, with the 
 grooves worn away in the stone by the many 
 hands and vessels which had rested there when 
 water was drawn. We explored the Temples 
 of the gods of Apollo, of Mercury, of Jupiter, 
 of Hercules, of Venus, of Fortune, and the 
 
80 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 Temple of the Egyptian goddess Isis, through 
 the lips of whose image an oracle was believed 
 to speak. 
 
 " People used to come here," explained my 
 shadow, " to ask if their voyages and ven 
 tures and other affairs would be successful. 
 It was very wonderful to hear Isis give them 
 the answers." 
 
 It must have seemed very wonderful then, 
 but it does not seem so wonderful to-day 
 when one is shown the secret staircase which 
 was found among the excavations and which 
 was the means the priests used to make their 
 way to the place behind the goddess from 
 where their voices would seem to come from 
 her oracular lips. 
 
 " But none of the gods prophesied what was 
 coming on that terrible day," I said. "There 
 was no warning." 
 
 We had walked for hours through the nar 
 row, sunny, silent streets, we had sat on the 
 steps of altars of the ruined temples, we had 
 stood in the amphitheatre where the gladia 
 tors fought with wild beasts and with each 
 other, and where the blood of criminals and 
 martyrs flowed upon the sands of the arena 
 amid the applause of these strange people, to 
 whom the agonies of despair and death were 
 an amusement. 
 
ONE WHO LIVED LONG, LONG AGO. 8 1 
 
 All the day I felt the presence of the 
 mountain brooding over us and the ruins it 
 had made. It seemed such an awful, sullen, 
 mysterious power. Who could tell what it 
 might do at any moment ? Silent and calm 
 for centuries, the very cattle at one time 
 browsing on its crater, who could have feared 
 it ? Luxurious little cities had clustered at 
 its feet, homes and happiness and pleasure 
 had grown beneath its soft smiling shadow. 
 But here one stranger from a far away 
 country sat wondering and dreaming on the 
 steps of the altars of the Temple of Venus in 
 the ruins of Pompeii. 
 
 As I tried to imagine that strange, awful 
 last day, I tried also to make quite real my 
 little slender shadow with the blue-black hair. 
 I wanted to know what she had thought and 
 felt. Poor little shadow, with the innocent 
 face smiling under her light wreath of flowers. 
 
 " And there was no warning," I kept 
 thinking. And this is what my imagination 
 made her tell me. 
 
 " No, there was no warning. At least 
 there was none we could understand and feel 
 real fear of. We were so sure of our Vesu 
 vius. We had never doubted it. For some 
 days before the weather was very hot but it 
 was often hot. And there were heavy curious 
 
 G 
 
82 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 clouds hovering about the mountain top but 
 though we watched them and spoke to each 
 other about them we were not afraid. Clouds 
 always gathered there when there were storms. 
 But it was very hot and the air seemed so 
 close and heavy. The morning of that last 
 day, I felt languid when I awoke, and I 
 went into the peristyle to see if it would be 
 cooler. But it seemed even hotter there. 
 The garlands were drooping and the flowers 
 hung their heads. They looked so tired and 
 thirsty that I gave them some water. And 
 as I went from one to the other, I saw that 
 the goldfish in the Piscina looked tired too. 
 I went and looked at them. They were so 
 still that at first I was almost afraid they 
 might be dead. They scarcely moved at all, 
 and seemed sometimes to gasp for breath. 
 While I was watching them something flew 
 past me and alighted at my feet. It came so 
 close that I could scarcely believe it was a 
 bird. But it was one a pretty little bird 
 which seemed to have fallen frightened and 
 exhausted. Its feathers were ruffled, and it 
 was panting for breath and held its tiny 
 beak open. It looked at me with such timid 
 bright eyes as if it wanted me to be kind and 
 protect it. I think it must have flown from 
 the mountain and felt the first stifling vapours. 
 
ONE WHO LIVED LONG, LONG AGO. 83 
 
 But I did not think of that then. It let me 
 stoop down and take it in my hand gently. 
 It nestled down in my palm as if it felt 
 comforted a little. I smoothed its feathers 
 softly and gave it some water. It drank but 
 it would not eat, and all the time it looked at 
 me with its timid bright eyes as if it were 
 asking me a question. I did not try to keep 
 it prisoner, but it would not leave me. It 
 seemed to like best to be in my hand. It 
 was with me to the last. I think all the 
 animals were frightened and felt that some 
 thing terrible was near. My little dog was 
 restless and turned round and round on his 
 bed as if he were afraid to lie down, and 
 again and again he lifted his head and gave 
 long doleful howls. 
 
 "The day got hotter and hotter. I tried 
 to sleep in the shade of the colonnade, and 
 the little bird nestled in the folds of my tunic 
 on my breast. But we neither of us slept, 
 and it kept ruffling its feathers and opening 
 its beak as if to get the air. 
 
 "And the flowers drooped so that at last 
 I thought I would give them more water to 
 drink. I gave them all some and went to 
 look at the goldfish again. I was standing 
 near them when suddenly I heard a strange 
 rumbling sound and felt myself shaken as i 
 
 G 2 
 
84 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 the earth were trembling, the fish were dart 
 ing to and fro, the water in their basin was 
 agitated, my little dog ran cowering to me, 
 and the bird fluttered wildly about my head. 
 I knew what earthquakes were, and I guessed 
 this was one and turned to run to find my 
 mother. But in a moment there were awful 
 sounds on every side. There was the crash of 
 falling halls, and roofs and pillars, and a great 
 darkness seemed to come from the mountain 
 a blackness lighted with deep burning red. 
 I looked up where the strange clouds had 
 been hovering, and there was a great tree of 
 fire flaming to the skies. Its trunk was 
 blackness, but its branches were flame. 
 Then an awful volume of the blackness 
 rolled over us and seemed to swallow the 
 city up. I ran screaming to my mother s 
 rooms. She met me before I reached them, 
 and caught my hand in the darkness, and we 
 ran through the falling vestibulum into the 
 street. It was filled with shrieking, flying 
 people. On all sides things were falling, the 
 air was filled with stifling vapours, and we 
 were smothered with heavy showers of hot 
 ashes and scorched with burning fragments 
 of pumice stone. We could not see and we 
 could not breathe ; I could scarcely cry out 
 when a house or a temple crumbled near me, 
 
ONE WHO LIVED LONG, LONG AGO. 85 
 
 or a huge red-hot boulder came flying from 
 the awful mountain and fell at my feet. 
 
 " We ran hither and thither in the darkness, 
 not knowing where to go ; we stumbled over 
 crushed and dead bodies, the ashes and lapilli 
 came thicker and thicker. And in the midst 
 of it I had a strange thought of the beautiful 
 peristylium, with the garlands and statues and 
 flowers, and the goldfish in the little crystal 
 pool. 
 
 " I do not know how long we ran and 
 struggled over the ruins in our way. It 
 could not have been long, because the 
 ashes came so thickly and there was no air 
 to breathe, but it seemed as if we ran to 
 and fro for hours. Then there came more 
 awful sounds from the mountain, more flames, 
 more ashes, more stone, and what seemed a 
 scalding rain. Boiling water was spouting 
 forth with all the rest, and mixed with the 
 ashes and molten stones it fell upon us. I 
 could run no more, and fell writhing on the 
 trembling earth. My mother would not 
 leave me. She struggled to raise me and 
 then fell too. I only remember one thing 
 more that I thought how soft and green the 
 mountain had been only the day before that 
 I remembered the garlands again and the 
 thirsty flowers and frightened goldfish, 
 
86 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 and I wondered where the little bird had 
 gone." 
 
 This was what I imagined she told me in 
 the voice and language of a little girl of to 
 day. One can imagine anything and make 
 it seem real to oneself even the story of a 
 poor little grey image in a glass case all 
 that that awful Last Day left of the child 
 who had died in Pompeii eighteen hundred 
 and eleven years ago. 
 
THE LITTLE FAUN. 
 
 THE boys and girls who have seen many 
 pictures will be sure to have seen somewhere 
 the picture of a Faun. To those who have 
 not chanced to see one I will explain that a 
 Faun is a strange, beautiful, mythical crea 
 ture, half almman being, half a happy, law 
 less, wild-woodland thing. No one ever 
 really saw a Faun except on canvas or in 
 marble, but he is generally represented with 
 a laughing, roguish face, slightly pointed ears, 
 and a quite unclothed body, the lower half 
 of which is like that of some slender wild 
 animal, being covered with shaggy hair, and 
 having beautiful hoofs instead of feet. This 
 figure of the imagination belongs to the old 
 classic days, when gods and goddesses were 
 supposed to roam about the world, and have 
 all sorts of romantic adventure, such as one 
 may read of in Lempriere s Classical Dic 
 tionary, which, by the way, I adored when I 
 was a little girl at school, and which I used 
 
88 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 to keep in a convenient corner of my desk, 
 so that I could dip into it and snatch a 
 legend while I was looking for pencils or 
 geographies. The Faun is supposed to be a 
 sort of wild, happy god of woodland life and 
 joys. At least that is, I think, the easiest 
 way to describe it. As there were woodland 
 nymphs who were called Dryads, and water 
 nymphs who were called Naiads, so there 
 were Fauns. There were in the old stories 
 imaginary creatures who were called Satyrs, 
 but I think in them there was generally sup 
 posed to be evil and ungentleness. It i.s a 
 difficult matter to be definite in describing the 
 characters of things living only in fancy, and 
 legends, and pictures but the Fauns of my 
 imaginings were as free from evil as they 
 were from thoughts ; they lived as their 
 friends the trees and little wild living things 
 did, they were happy in the warm sunshine, 
 in the cool rain, in the softness of the thick, 
 green moss, in the damp fragrance of the 
 earth and leaves after a storm ; the rushing 
 wind pleased them, the patter of the rain 
 drops on the trees, the swaying of the 
 branches and the bending of the grass, the 
 light, the green dimness of the forest s 
 shadow, the sounds of the birds going to 
 sleep or awakening, the ferns, the bushes. 
 
THE LITTLE FAUN. 89 
 
 Everything that lived and grew and was part 
 of Nature was part of the Fauns too, and 
 gave them their wild, careless, half-human, 
 half-animal joy. I have always thought that 
 it must have been a happy thing to be a 
 Faun, and I have amused myself by imagining 
 that, perhaps, in those old classic days, the 
 legends were true, and that great light happi 
 ness, which fills all one s mind and body 
 in the spring when the earth is awakening 
 and breathing the odour of greenness and 
 freshness and things growing comes to us 
 from some of those Fauns and Dryads of 
 ages ago, and perhaps we are a little like 
 them sometimes yet. And I have even 
 pleased myself by thinking I saw in young 
 human things all joyous at being alive, a 
 something a little like that old joyousness 
 of nature in a troop of young Fauns. There 
 is a buoyant, laughing young Faun who 
 goes with me everywhere, I think there is 
 also one I see every day playing in all sorts 
 of weathers, in the one street of the tiny 
 German village among the hills and pine 
 forests, where I am staying now. But the 
 one I am going to tell you about, did not 
 live among mountains and forests and wild 
 strawberries and flowers and tumbling streams 
 he lived in a small house in a Washington 
 
90 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 street, and I think his mother was a dress 
 maker. 
 
 Poor, beautiful, happy little Faun. I did 
 not know his name, and I could see no 
 reason for his being happy at all, and yet I 
 never saw anything so perfectly full of joy 
 from morning until night. 
 
 Washington has been growing into a very 
 beautiful city during the last ten years, but 
 when I first went to live there it had one 
 great peculiarity. In almost every nice wide 
 street one saw small shabby cottages or 
 tumble-down shanties side by side with the 
 largest and most comfortable houses there 
 were to be found in the city. The effect was 
 not so beautiful as it was droll, but some 
 times it was the means of showing one 
 contrasts in life. 
 
 The house in which I lived then belonged 
 to General Grant, it having been presented 
 to him by some of his friends and admirers. 
 At the corner of the same side of the street 
 was a large brick house where General Gar- 
 field lived ; opposite my house there was a 
 small row of frame houses all occupied by 
 coloured people, and opposite General Gar- 
 field s corner was the small brick house 
 inhabited by the dressmaker whose little boy 
 was a Faun. 
 
THE LITTLE FAUN. QI 
 
 I never saw the dressmaker, I only heard 
 somehow that she existed, and that she was 
 the little Faun s mother. 
 
 I think she must have been a poor dress 
 maker. Perhaps she used to sit upstairs in 
 some back room and cut out patterns and 
 sew very hard ; at least that is the picture I 
 always made of her when I watched the 
 darling little Faun, and wondered why he 
 was uncared-for and always alone. I felt 
 sure she must love him, and would have 
 washed and dressed him if she had had time. 
 
 Only a few yards from my front door were 
 two beautiful, thick-leaved, full-branched 
 maple trees. When regular rows of trees 
 were being planted in the streets, General 
 Grant saved the lives of these two, which 
 were to have been cut down. They were 
 such beautiful trees. They shaded all the 
 house, and were so intimate with me that 
 each spring they sent out longer and 
 longer shoots from their branches, until 
 Boy and The Socialist who were tiny 
 fellows then could stand at the nursery 
 windows and shake hands with them. 
 
 These sociable branches were most friendly 
 at the nursery windows and the windows of 
 my workroom on the third story. The 
 workroom was called The Den, and it was a 
 
92 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 very pretty room, and its windows looked 
 in the most familiar manner into the very 
 nests of the bird families who built on the 
 tops of the two trees. 
 
 I was very intimate with the birds quite 
 on visiting terms. They used to perch on 
 my window ledge sometimes and talk to 
 each other about me, and they quarrelled 
 with each other without the slightest em 
 barrassment as they hopped about the 
 branches. There was a lady sparrow who lived 
 in a most fashionable nest at the very top 
 and who used to scold her husband severely 
 and chirp back at him like a vixen when he 
 dared to answer her. I think she used to 
 accuse him of bringing indigestible worms to 
 his family, and say that a sparrow with the 
 least proper domestic feeling would provide 
 more carefully. 
 
 I used to hold my pen still to listen and 
 watch. I was always listening and watching 
 those two, and it was while being idle like 
 that one day that I caught my first glimpse 
 of the little Faun. For a moment I lowered 
 my eyes to a part of the streets below ; I 
 could see through the branches, and there 
 was the tiny Faun dancing on the pavement 
 before his own small front door. I did not 
 know he was a Faun then I only thought 
 
THE LITTLE FAUN. 93 
 
 of that afterwards when I had seen him 
 oftener and knew more of his bright gleeful 
 ways. At that moment I only saw the most 
 beautiful, unwashed, half-clothed little crea 
 ture one could imagine. He was perhaps 
 four or five years old, he had no hat and no 
 shoes or stockings, indeed he had on nothing 
 but a fluttering little calico slip. Fortunately 
 it was a warm day in the early summer, and 
 besides, being a Faun, I daresay he would 
 not have been happy in ordinary clothes. 
 His way of dancing was simply to hop lightly 
 from one foot to the other and sometimes 
 turn round, keeping time to the music of his 
 own pretty laughs. As he danced his dingy 
 calico slip fluttered about, and I could see 
 his round bare limbs on which he wore 
 nothing at all. I saw him every day for 
 several weeks, and I never saw him with any 
 more clothes on, and I do not think I ever 
 knew his curly hair to be brushed, though 
 sometimes very rarely I suspected he had 
 been caught and washed. But his hair was 
 so curly that perhaps it might have been 
 brushed without one s knowing it. It was 
 such pretty hair, not long, but such a bright 
 colour, and all one mass of soft curls and 
 rings which danced as he danced. As for 
 his face it was the roundest, dimpled, lovely 
 
94 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 laughing one. It looked as if it knew of 
 nothing else but laughing. That is one rea 
 son I always thought his mother must have 
 loved him even though she was too busy to 
 take much care of him* If she had not loved 
 him he would not always have been so gay. 
 
 But he was always gay. I became as ac 
 customed to watching him as I was to watch 
 ing the bird families in my trees, indeed I 
 think I began to watch the birds less when 
 ever the little Faun was to be seen. 
 
 He did not seem to play with other chil 
 dren. He was always by himself, always 
 wore the one small calico garment, and was 
 always enjoying himself. I do not remember 
 ever having seen him stand quite still. He 
 was nearly always dancing from one foot to 
 the other, and talking and laughing to himself. 
 I have seen him run out into the street when 
 it rained, and dance about with the rain 
 drops falling on his curls, just as I am sure 
 the young Fauns must have done in their 
 forests after the hot days. He liked the rain 
 as he liked the sunshine, and I daresay each 
 drop on his cheeks or his curls seemed like a 
 little kiss. 
 
 I am sure he had no toys, and I fancy he 
 did not think of wanting them. He used to 
 amuse himself sometimes with leaves and 
 
THE LITTLE FAUN. 95 
 
 pebbles, and bits of grass. Perhaps he was 
 more intimate than I was with the birds in the 
 maples, and when they perched on the dress 
 maker s fence and twittered they were telling 
 him interesting things only a little Faun 
 would understand, and which I was too 
 stupid and human to comprehend. Who 
 knows but that they told him stories of 
 birds who knew other birds who had been 
 in strange, mythical countries, where there 
 were forest glades where Fauns hid them 
 selves still. At least it is certain he was never 
 at a loss for amusement, and never tired of 
 talking to the sunshine and the summer wind, 
 and the rain-drops and the leaves. Once 
 quite an ordinary adventure befell him, but I 
 am sure he not only did not mind it at all, 
 but he enjoyed it very much. 
 
 Perhaps he had been listening to the birds 
 stories, and had thought he could dance 
 happily away, and find the other little Fauns 
 in the deep, shadowy forest glades. At any 
 rate he strayed away and was lost. I don t 
 know where he went. I only know he had 
 been lost when I looked out through the 
 branches and saw the big policeman bringing 
 him home. 
 
 The big policeman was the one whose 
 " beat " took in our street. I did not really 
 
96 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 quite know him to speak to myself, but I 
 almost knew him because Boy and the 
 Socialist were really on intimate terms with 
 him. Boy and the Socialist were so little 
 then that they wore short white kilts and 
 large sashes, and socks, and long curly hair, 
 and it was considered a most splendid and 
 daring social feat to know and actually talk 
 to a policeman. In fact I believe this police 
 man was not at all ferocious, and that he 
 even liked beautiful little boys who regarded 
 him with admiration. But it was very grand 
 to know him well enough to look through the 
 iron fence and say, " Halloa, Mr. Niel, good 
 morning ! " when he walked slowly past, and 
 even on occasions to saunter out and stride 
 manfully by his side engaged in sprightly 
 conversation, the short, plump legs in white 
 socks doing their best to keep up with the 
 big long ones, and having to accomplish it 
 by trotting. 
 
 Boy and the Socialist always spoke of 
 him reverentially as " Mr. Niel/ and said he 
 was such a nice coloured gentleman. He 
 talks to us just as if he wasn t a policeman 
 at all." He even condescended to let them 
 examine his club, and I seem to have some 
 recollection of their having discovered that it 
 was true that he sometimes carried a pistol. 
 
THE LITTLE FAUN. 97 
 
 It was this " nice coloured gentleman " who 
 found the Faun and brought him home. I 
 saw them crossing the street together. Mr. 
 Niel was very big and muscular, and could 
 have managed a burglar or a riotous person 
 very easily ; but the Faun had evidently not 
 a shadow of anything but friendly pleasure 
 in his society. He was holding Mr. Niel s 
 hand and dancing along by his side, from one 
 foot to another, as he always did. His curly 
 hair was golden in the sun, he was as dirty 
 as a little Faun could be, but he was laughing 
 and talking as he hopped, and Mr. Niel was 
 laughing too. It was not such a small thing 
 as being lost in a big city and brought home 
 in the custody of a big policeman that would 
 disturb or frighten a little Faun. He had 
 played with lions and leopards in his forests 
 in those long past ages when he had been 
 a real Faun, and he was not likely to be 
 afraid of a policeman. 
 
 I do not know exactly how it was we never 
 had any opportunity of knowing the little 
 Faun any better. Perhaps it was because of 
 his habit of amusing himself and not caring 
 much for the society of others. But once I 
 held him in my arms for a few minutes, and 
 Boy and the Socialist played with him. 
 
 We were just on the point of going away 
 
 II 
 
98 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 to the seaside,, and as the weather was be 
 coming warm I used sometimes to sit out of 
 doors under the maples in the evening while 
 Boy and the Socialist played on the tiny 
 square of grass before the drawing-room 
 windows. 
 
 We were there together one evening when 
 I saw the little Faun coming slowly across 
 the street towards us. He was not dancing 
 as usual, though he made occasional little 
 hops as he drew near, watching us with a sort 
 of wistful look in his eyes. Perhaps it was 
 because as it was such a warm evening he 
 thought it looked cool and pleasant under 
 the trees where the mamma, in a thin white 
 frock, watched the two little fellows who had 
 such bright hair and bright sashes, and who 
 were all in white, too. 
 
 I think that must have been it. He was 
 as unwashed as usual himself, and his pretty 
 curls were all tangled, and he had evidently 
 worn his one little garment several days. 
 But he did not mind that, of course, and I 
 am sure it never came into his mind that there 
 was any difference between the two pretty 
 boys and his own pretty self. They were 
 romping, happy Fauns too, notwithstanding 
 their embroidered frocks and white sashes. 
 
 I watched him as he came closer and 
 
THE LITTLE FAUN. 99 
 
 closer, just as some dear little animal in the 
 woods might come towards things he liked 
 to look at. I did not say anything at first 
 because I was afraid of startling him, and 
 making him run away as a squirrel or rabbit 
 might. 
 
 But by the time he had reached the gate 
 and taken hold of it and was looking 
 through, Boy and the Socialist saw him, 
 and stopped their playing to look at him. 
 
 It was just as if three large-eyed, sociable, 
 little woodland creatures had met. They 
 drew near to each other, the two pairs of 
 brown eyes fixed on the one pair of blue ones, 
 with a soft, friendly curiosity. As for me, I 
 kept quite still and watched. I wanted so 
 much to see how little Fauns made friends. 
 
 I do not to this day know quite how it was 
 done. There certainly was not a shadow of 
 ceremony. In a few moments the gate was 
 opened and there were some pretty joyous 
 sounds, and three little Fauns were jump 
 ing and laughing together as if they had 
 played in the same forest since they were 
 born. 
 
 How they enjoyed themselves, and how 
 pleased the two clean little Fauns were with 
 the dirty one. I am sure they thought it an 
 accomplishment to be able to have such a 
 
 H 2 
 
100 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 dirty face and such tangled hair, though 
 indeed they were extremely talented them 
 selves in that direction. But they shouted 
 and jumped about, and rolled on the square 
 of grass, and tumbled over each other. 
 They cared no more about their frocks and 
 sashes than young birds care about their 
 feathers. 
 
 But in the midst of their pleasure an 
 accident happened. They had always been 
 under the impression that the iron fence had 
 been invented and put round the grass simply 
 that they might have something to climb on, 
 in fact they believed that everything that 
 could be climbed on or over was made 
 expressly for them. So of course they began 
 to climb manfully, and their new friend 
 climbed too, and somehow he lost his hold and 
 fell. 
 
 I daresay the little Fauns of classic days 
 did not hurt themselves when they fell, and 
 so they never cried, but this poor little man 
 got a very hard bump and he broke out into 
 quite a splendid roar. I sprang from my 
 seat and ran to him and picked him up in 
 my arms. It was not a serious hurt at all, 
 and I knew the great cure for bumps, so I 
 carried him back to my chair and held him 
 on my knee and petted him, and gave soft 
 
" Boy and the Socialist saw him, and stopped their playing to look at him. 
 
THE LITTLE FAUN. IOI 
 
 little pats such as I always gave Boy and 
 the Socialist when I was in trouble. 
 
 It was then I realized the difference 
 between wild little Fauns and tame ones. 
 My own, too, were so used to be held and 
 patted that when one took them up they 
 nestled down like kittens, but holding this 
 one was like holding a rabbit. He did not 
 seem afraid, and I could see that he liked it, 
 but his small body did not seem to know 
 how to relax itself, and he looked at me 
 through his tears with a sort of wondering 
 gratefulness, as if he were not used to being 
 taken care of in that way. I felt surer than 
 ever that everyone was very busy at his 
 house, and had no time to spare. 
 
 But the tears were gone directly. In two 
 minutes he was laughing again and sitting on 
 my knee quite ready for more fun, and the 
 other two were as ready as he. 
 
 It occurred to me that perhaps little Fauns 
 were fond of sweet things, and as the dress 
 maker was poor he might not often taste 
 them ; so I took some pennies out of my 
 pocket and put them in his hand. 
 
 "Would you like to take those/ I said, 
 " and get some candy at the store round the 
 corner ? " 
 
 He did not say anything indeed, it is 
 
102 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 rather curious that I never can remember 
 anything he said, and I tell myself it is 
 perhaps because he spoke only the Faun 
 language, and I did not understand it. But 
 he laughed and looked happy, and the next 
 minute he was out of the gate and dancing 
 across the street. 
 
 Boy and the Socialist did not seem 
 surprised that he had left them. Squirrels 
 don t say good-bye to each other, and they 
 did not expect that he would be more cere 
 monious. They began to play together again. 
 
 But in a few minutes the little Faun came 
 dancing back. He was all sunshine and 
 smiles, and he had a packet of candy in his 
 hand. He had not even opened it, and I 
 wondered why. I found out directly. He 
 made signs to the two small Fauns inside the 
 gate, and they went towards him. Then he 
 opened his packet, and held it out to them 
 with smiles. They helped themselves cheer 
 fully, and then the little Faun helped him 
 self, and they stood and munched amicably 
 together. You see because he was a Faun 
 he had only sweet, happy, joyous impulses, 
 and did not know what selfishness was, and 
 he did not think of even opening his 
 treasure until he had carried it back to share 
 it with his little fellow- Fauns, even though no 
 
THE LITTLE FAUN. IO3 
 
 one expected for one moment that he would 
 not simply enjoy it by himself. 
 
 The next day we went to the seaside, and 
 I never saw my little Faun again. When 
 we returned in the autumn I did not see him 
 dancing before his door for several days, and 
 so I spoke to a servant about him. 
 
 " Do you know where the pretty little 
 curly boy is ?" I asked. "The one who was 
 always dancing from one leg to the other/ 
 
 " No, ma am, I don t," was the answer. 
 " His mother was a dressmaker, and she 
 moved away in the hot weather. I never 
 heard where they went." 
 
 I was very sorry. I wanted to know my 
 Faun better. I felt sure he had a sweet, 
 lovable nature, and I thought I might c!o 
 things to please him. I have never forgotten 
 him, and I often wonder if he is as happy now 
 that he is a big boy. He must be a big 
 fellow now. Boy and the Socialist have 
 had time to grow tall, and travel in foreign 
 countries, and learn foreign languages, 
 and become enthusiastic electricians and 
 scientists, and adorers of Edison, but they 
 remember the little Faun. Some day I think 
 I shall try to write his story. I wonder if it 
 will be at all like the true one. 
 
"WHAT USE IS A POET ? " 
 
 IT was the Socialist who said it, and he said 
 it quite innocently and with a sincere desire 
 for information. The Socialist is always in 
 search of information, and he is always " rising 
 to remark " upon some novel theory or pro 
 blem. 
 
 The most interesting are usually pro 
 pounded when we are walking together. 
 This particular morning we were walking 
 along a beautiful country road, it being a 
 daily duty he had charged himself with to 
 forcibly relieve me from the sad duties of a 
 sick-room. 
 
 It was a very beautiful country road, and 
 the sweet spring air soothed and refreshed 
 me. He looked so rosy and well, and had 
 such coaxing, comforting ways. It seemed as 
 if the shadow of illness or danger could not 
 even approach him. 
 
 We walked along, sometimes in the spring 
 sunshine, and the Socialist marched on briskly, 
 
"WHAT USE IS A POET?" 105 
 
 sometimes with his hand through my arm, 
 sometimes with his boyish arm round my 
 waist, sometimes with his hands in the pockets 
 of his trim-fitting coat. Socialist though he 
 is, the jaunty close fit of his coat is quite 
 admirable. But this may have something to 
 do with the plump strength of his straight 
 young body. 
 
 He seemed to be reflecting for a few 
 minutes. He kept his eyes on the road as 
 he walked, and quite suddenly he asked his 
 question. 
 
 " I wish you d tell me, Cherie, what is the 
 use of a poet ? What use is he ? " 
 
 It was rather a startling question to me. 
 Limited as my information is on many sub 
 jects of vital interest to the Socialist, I try to 
 keep pace with him in such matters as my 
 untrained feminine mind might hope to 
 grasp. And I will say this for him, that 
 he tactfully endeavours to adapt himself 
 to my limitations and not ask me impossible 
 " hard ones." Dynamos he knows I am not 
 equal to, horizontal engines and electric 
 lights he is aware I am not able to grapple 
 with, but poets I might rise to and give 
 reliable opinions about. And, indeed, I 
 always feel it very sweet of him that he gives 
 me nothing much more scientific and complex 
 
106 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 to explain than mere poets and things of that 
 sort. 
 
 And yet the question seemed rather difficult 
 to answer just at first. 
 
 " What is the use of a poet ? " I repeated a 
 little slowly. "What are you thinking of, 
 sweetheart ? " , 
 
 "Well, you see," he answered energetic 
 ally, " every man ought to have his use. 
 When he does a thing or makes a thing 
 it ought to be useful in some way. When 
 a man makes an engine, or builds a bridge, 
 or invents a telephone, you see what it is 
 for. But what is poetry for? What is the 
 
 His rosy cheek looked so round and like 
 a splendid baby s that I could not help 
 smiling and putting a kiss on it as I took his 
 arm. 
 
 " You are the--Electric boy, aren t you ? " I 
 said. " You belong to the telephone age to 
 the Edison-Bell phonograph steam heated- 
 linotype century." 
 
 " Yes, I do," he answered exultantly. " And 
 I am glad of it. But I want to know about 
 poets and poetry. Perhaps it s because I m 
 only a boy and haven t any genius, but do you 
 know that somehow I can t get interested 
 when I try to read poetry." 
 
"WHAT USE IS A POET?" IO/ 
 
 " That s all right," I said cheerfully. Per 
 haps you will when you are older. There are 
 so many motors to attend to just now." 
 
 "Yes," he said. " And it is so easy fora 
 boy to be interested in motors." 
 
 " The truth is," I answered, " that this is 
 the Telephone time and it is tremendously 
 interesting. We are living among such 
 wonderful things and they are all so use 
 ful that it is quite natural to ask what a thing 
 is ( for. People in other days used to make 
 journeys to see each other and ask questions, 
 now they can talk through a tube without 
 leaving their rooms ; once people kept long- 
 winded diaries, now they can confess into 
 a phonograph ; they used to write long 
 business letters, now they cable across the 
 Atlantic, or cross it in a few days a dozen 
 times a year." 
 
 "Yes," said the Socialist, "just think of the 
 fun I have when we go over for the summer, 
 and how different it must have been in the old 
 days. I should almost like to live in the 
 engine-room," with rapture. 
 
 I am quite aware that he would. The 
 Socialist is a fine product of the Telephone 
 age and before an engine-room man with 
 a black face one who could speak with the 
 proper feeling of relationship to boilers 
 
108 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 and " pressure " pistons and walking beams, 
 the White Czar himself would sink into non 
 entity. 
 
 " It is a beautiful age ! " said I. 
 
 The Socialist gave me a bright look of 
 scrutiny. 
 
 " Are you making fun ? " he asked. 
 
 "Not at all," I replied. "The wonderful 
 useful things are of use to everybody in one 
 way or another. They bring the beautiful 
 things to everybody. The poets are better 
 cared for, too. Think what beautiful books 
 their beautiful thoughts are printed in. Think 
 what beautiful pictures often illustrate them. 
 Once great poets starved and wasted in ante 
 chambers, sneered at by menials, for the 
 coming of the great man who might give them 
 a few guineas. Great men wait for poets now, 
 and are pleased to speak with them of the 
 work they do. The Telephone century brings 
 the greatest poets and artists, singers and 
 actors from one far-off part of the world to 
 the other, so that everyone can know some 
 thing of them." 
 
 " That s true, isn t it ? " exclaimed the 
 Socialist. I think he had been a shade 
 anxious lest all the merits of his beloved 
 dynamos might chance to fail to be quite 
 appreciated by even a gentle unpositive per- 
 
" WHAT USE IS A POET ? " IO9 
 
 son who was not scientific and only could be 
 trusted for definite information on the subject 
 of poets. But he had been quite safe. It 
 would never have occurred to me that I could 
 prove to him the use of poets by decrying what 
 was so near his heart. 
 
 "A book of travels," he explained, "tells 
 you things. Those papers of Kennan s on 
 Siberia, or Stanley s * Darkest Africa you 
 get to know so much when you read them. 
 But what is the use of writing things in 
 rhyme?" 
 
 " I will tell you something," I said. "There 
 are poets and poets who never wrote a rhyme 
 in their lives, and who never had a word of 
 their poems published. And sometimes they 
 have been the most perfect poets of all." 
 
 " Never wrote anything in rhyme ? " he 
 exclaimed. " Then how were they poets ? " 
 
 " I can only tell you my own thoughts 
 about it," I said. " I think a poet is a person 
 who sees things in the most beautiful way, 
 and does things in the most beautiful way, 
 and tells his thoughts in the most beautiful 
 words. Even in the telephone century, you 
 know there are all sorts of troublesome things 
 and tiresome things, and one has often to ex 
 press things that are difficult. Now if one 
 can say the commonplace or painful things 
 
110 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 in some sweet or gentle way, one Is a sort 
 of poet even though one never dreams of 
 rhyme* It is always easiest and most con 
 vincing to illustrate with the things most 
 familiar and near to us. I can illustrate with 
 poor Boy who is so ill. Suppose I were to 
 say to him, Yes, you are very ill. You can 
 not use your cameras, or your engines, or 
 your bicycle any more. You must lie still and 
 take medicine and peptonoids all day and 
 night. When you travel to different countries 
 you will have a doctor and a trained nurse 
 always with you, and your medicine-chest 
 will be in the railway carriage. I shall spend 
 a great deal of money for you, but I don t 
 know when you will get well. That would 
 be telling him the truth in ugly, hurting 
 words. But if I kneel by him and comfort 
 him, and say, * Yes, you are ill, darling boy, 
 but it only makes us all feel how much we 
 love you. And we only live to make the 
 days go easily for you. Everything you 
 1 would like you shall have. The doctor and 
 the nurse are as nice as they are clever. We 
 will pretend you are the Prince Imperial, and 
 we are your court and have to fly to do 
 your bidding. You shall go to any country 
 you like and that agrees with you, and every 
 country shall give its very nicest things to 
 
"WHAT USE IS A POET?" Ill 
 
 help and amuse you. When I tell him the 
 truth in that way he is soothed instead of 
 hurt,, and his illness even seems to have a 
 pleasant side." 
 
 " Yes, dearest," said the Socialist, holding 
 my arm close. 
 
 "And that is what the poet does," I said 
 after a few seconds. " That is the use of a poet. 
 When trouble is harsh he tries to find some 
 thing in it that is gentle; if there is nothing 
 gentle in it, perhaps he is able to tell us how 
 it may teach us courage and patience, and 
 help us to understand the things that hurt 
 others. Then he tells us a great, beautiful 
 truth in such a way that in spite of ourselves 
 we remember it. It may seem a funny thing 
 to say, but there is a very simple ancient poet 
 who is not exactly considered a poet, who 
 will still help me to tell you one thing I mean. 
 Her name was Mother Goose, and she is one of 
 the most celebrated persons in the world. 
 Who do you suppose ever forgets 
 
 " Little boy blue, come blow your horn, 
 The sheep s in the meadow, the cow s in the corn. 
 Is that the way to mind your sheep, 
 Under the haystack fast asleep ? " 
 
 How the Socialist laughed and hugged my 
 arm. 
 
112 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 " No," he said. " Nobody forgets that- 
 even in the telephone century." 
 
 " Certainly not," I said. " And why not ? 
 I believe it is because of the jingle of the rhyme. 
 I don t think millions of children would have 
 remembered it if it had only been written like 
 this : Blow your trumpet, little boy dressed in 
 blue. You are not minding your sheep. You 
 are fast asleep and the sheep and cows have 
 got into the corn and the meadow." 
 
 "Of course they wouldn t," laughed the 
 Socialist. 
 
 " I am certain of it/ I answered, laughing 
 too. " And the poets found out that when 
 they put their thoughts into music which was 
 not merely jingle they would somehow return 
 to people s minds because of the melody, and 
 the great thoughts would be remembered 
 and do their work better. Now listen to this. 
 Any boy who thinks and feels can understand 
 it and see that it is splendid and real 
 
 "Tell me not in mournful numbers 
 
 Life is but an empty dream, 
 For the soul is dead that slumbers 
 And things are not what they seem. 
 
 " Life is real life is earnest, 
 
 And the grave is not its goal ; 
 
 Dust thou art, to dust returnest 
 
 Was not spoken of the soul." 
 
"WHAT USE IS A POET?" 113 
 
 " I am not going to repeat a lot of poetry to 
 you, because you will get the most good out 
 of it when you care to read it and think over 
 it for yourself. But that means something, 
 doesn t it? It isn t only rhyming sound." 
 
 " Yes, it means something," answered the 
 Socialist, with bright eyes. "Who wrote 
 it ? " 
 
 "Longfellow. And it is called The 
 Psalm of Life. It is a beautiful thought put 
 into musical words and you know when you 
 come to think it is as energetic and practical 
 in one way as almost anything in the tele 
 phone century. The last verse is full of 
 bravery and force. It goes like this 
 
 " Let us then be up and doing, 
 With a heart for any fate, 
 Still achieving, still pursuing, 
 Learn to labour and to wait." 
 
 " An electric boy can comprehend all that. 
 Edison and Bell and the rest have always 
 been up and doing. Men who make 
 great inventions have to have hearts for any 
 fate/ and the more you read of their lives the 
 more you see how they had to labour and to 
 wait. I dare say some of them have often 
 remembered those lines. You see that is 
 the use of a poet, his strongest, most 
 beautiful thoughts have something in them 
 
 I 
 
114 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 that may be a sort of help even for the 
 people whose lives seem all prose. Perhaps 
 the finest poetry has always to be first the 
 reallest prose. Then it can come home to 
 everybody." 
 
 " Well, even I can understand that Psalm 
 of Life, " he said, " and of course I am only 
 a boy." 
 
 " Then you know the use of a poet," I said. 
 " And that reminds me of something a great 
 English statesman once said to me about you. 
 He was a very great statesman, whose name 
 is known all over the world. You know who 
 he was, and that I met him at a lunch party 
 at a villa near Florence." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I know," he said. "And I 
 should like to ask him about socialism, but 
 of course he must be too busy to have time 
 for boys." 
 
 " He finds time for everything. He sat 
 next to me at lunch, and he said to me, 
 What are you doing with the Socialist ? 
 (Though he did not call you that.) What 
 are you letting him learn ? 
 
 " Just now, I answered, ( he is learning 
 French principally, and as much Italian as 
 he can pick up without a grammar/ 
 
 " Well/ he said, don t give him too many 
 modern languages. 
 
"WHAT USE IS A TOET?" I 15 
 
 " ( But don t you think they are very useful 
 when a man has his career to make ? " I 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes, he replied, useful. They are ex 
 cellent tools for work, but a man needs some 
 thing more than the things that are merely 
 useful. I hold that he should be given the 
 ability to understand and appreciate the old 
 classic wonders which will help him to make 
 his mind beautiful and develop its poetic 
 powers. We are too utilitarian in these days. 
 I can t have any mistakes made in the train 
 ing of the Socialist. Let him learn his 
 modern languages, but give him the classics 
 too. He must not be altogether utilitarian/ 
 
 " He was a great man and a wonderful one, 
 but you see he saw the use of a poet/ " 
 
 The Socialist is a very fortunate person. 
 He has many gifts, but I think perhaps his 
 choicest possession is a charming little habit 
 of saying pretty things. 
 
 " A fascinating young humbug," I heard 
 some one who is very fond of him say not 
 long ago. He has the trick of saying things 
 just as it is most delightful to hear them. 
 
 But I who have been quite intimate with 
 
 him since his birth, have a theory that he is 
 
 not really a humbug at all, but that he has 
 
 the luck to think pleasant things, and the 
 
 I 2 
 
Il6 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 power to say frankly and prettily what he 
 thinks. And what luck that is ! 
 
 He put his arm round my waist and 
 looked up at, me with his most dimpled 
 smilingness. 
 
 "Yes, Cherie," he said, "thank you for 
 explaining it to me. I understand what 
 you mean. I think I see the use of a poet. 
 And I know what a poet is. You are a 
 poet/ 
 
 I considered this quite a triumph of lov 
 able courtliness even for him. 
 
 "I should like to be/ I answered, " even 
 if I couldn t write poetry." 
 
 " So should I," he said, " though I am only 
 a boy. I can try to be." 
 
 " We will both try/ I said. 
 
THE BOY WHO BECAME A 
 SOCIALIST. 
 
 THE room in which I work in my house in 
 London is called the Japanese Room. It is 
 called so because all the furniture and decora 
 tions are Japanese. But there are two very 
 un-Japanese decorations. They are the por 
 traits of two boys, who watch me all the 
 time. One, who is about fourteen, stands with 
 his hands in his coat pockets as if he were 
 perhaps looking at a cricket match or a base 
 ball game ; the other is about twelve, and is 
 leaning against an old carved oak cabinet. 
 This last one is The Socialist. You would 
 never imagine it when you looked at his 
 picture. He has such a round, laughing face, 
 and he wears a quaint costume with a long 
 pointed vest, lace ruffles, and paste knee and 
 shoe buckles, and a velvet coat not at all 
 what you would expect of a person with 
 Socialistic views, and, in fact, it is not The 
 Socialist s usual costume. It was one he 
 
Il8 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 wore when he sang a quaint song at a charity 
 concert, and it was so becoming to his plump 
 young body that I wanted a picture of him 
 in it. And yet, notwithstanding his round, 
 dimpled, boy face, and his velvet coat, and 
 lace ruffles, and his brilliant paste buckles, it 
 is he who is The Socialist. 
 
 It was in London at the beginning of the 
 last season that I found this out. I had not 
 been aware of it myself before. He came 
 into my room one morning, and the moment 
 he entered I knew that he was filled to the 
 brim with some new exciting idea which he 
 must talk about. I always know when he is 
 in that condition because his face looks 
 rounder and rosier than ever, and such a 
 lot of queer little dimples dance about his 
 mouth. 
 
 " Dearest," he said, " I am a Socialist. I 
 just wanted to tell you I am a Socialist," and 
 he thrust his hands into the very bottom of 
 the pocket of his little red and black blazer 
 and sat down firmly on the nearest chair. 
 
 It was perhaps a little sudden, but then I 
 am never surprised at anything The Socialist 
 does. I have known him long enough to be 
 quite accustomed to the cheerful activity of 
 his mind. So I only smiled and looked 
 interested as I felt. 
 
THE BOY WHO BECAME A SOCIALIST. 119 
 
 "Are you, dear?" I answered. "When 
 did it begin ? " 
 
 " Well, you see," he explained, delight and 
 eagerness making quite an illumination of 
 him, " I have been reading the most beautiful 
 book. It is the most beautiful book I ever 
 read in all my life. It is by Edward Bellamy, 
 and it is called Looking Backward/ I have 
 not quite finished it, and the only thing is, I 
 am so afraid it will turn out at the end 
 to be only a dream. I want it to seem as if 
 it were quite true." 
 
 This interested me. I had read the book 
 myself, and I thought I should like very 
 much to hear how it had impressed a sturdy 
 twelve-year-old Socialist with his hands in 
 the pockets of a tennis jacket. 
 
 It is always interesting to know what boys 
 and girls think of great problems if they 
 think naturally and through simple spon 
 taneous interest. They have all of life before 
 them ; they have the courage and hope that 
 can believe and plan things, and they have 
 the years in which to do the best things to 
 develop plans. It was quite exciting to 
 look at The Socialist, with his glowing face 
 and his strong little clenched boy s hands. 
 
 " And the book made you a Socialist ? " I 
 said. " What sort of a Socialist ? " 
 
I2O CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 He was so full of his subject that he could 
 not sit still. He is never a very still boy. He 
 jumped up and began to walk up and down 
 the room, talking as he walked, and making 
 the most animated gestures. 
 
 " The sort that could help to make the kind 
 of world there is in that book/ he said. " It 
 made me so excited to read it. Why, if it 
 were true, there would be no more wrong or 
 injustice, or poverty or suffering there would 
 be no more beggars or tyrants or idle people 
 just think of that ! And every man would 
 have his own work to do, and he would do it. 
 Oh, why can t it be true ? I can t bear it to be 
 only a dream/ 
 
 One of the charms of The Socialist is that 
 he is so tremendously in earnest about every 
 thing. He rides his bicycle, plays cricket or 
 tennis or football, rows and dances, or shouts 
 over a baseball game, all with equal ardour. 
 He is a boy with an athletic appetite, and a 
 strong, young, growing body that is the 
 thing that adds to one s interest in his strong, 
 young, growing heart and mind, 
 
 " It would be a beautiful dream, in which 
 all sorrow and wrong could be put an end to 
 for ever, wouldn t it ? " I said. 
 
 He wheeled about and made an animated 
 gesture with his clenched hand. 
 
THE BOY WHO BECAME A SOCIALIST. 121 
 
 " But it ought not to be only a dream," he 
 said. " It ought to be real." 
 
 " Well," I answered, " of course all great 
 changes and improvements take time, and 
 perhaps even if the ends were accomplished, 
 it would not be exactly in the Looking Back 
 ward way but it wouldn t matter how it was 
 done. And I should think the best beginning 
 would be that all the people who read the 
 book boys especially, because they have all 
 their years before them should make up their 
 minds each to do his part of trying to make 
 it real." 
 
 That delighted him. He looked more aglow 
 than ever, and all his dear little dimples 
 showed themselves at once. 
 
 " That would do it," he exclaimed, walking 
 up and down with new excitement. " And 
 wouldn t I like to try ! It would take years 
 and years, I dare say it might not come till 
 after my life was over but oh! if I could 
 just be one of those who helped to make it 
 not a dream." 
 
 " Then my life would have been worth 
 living/ I said, " because I should have been 
 the mother of one of those who helped to 
 make it not a dream. Sit down and let us 
 talk it over." 
 
 Then he sat down and we talked it over, 
 
122 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 and it was delightful. It would have been 
 very interesting to have taken down The 
 Socialist s remarks just as he made them in his 
 vigorous, unadorned, boy English. He wanted 
 all the imperfect laws repealed, all the rich 
 people to be generous, all the poor ones to be 
 given work and good pay, all the weak ones to 
 be taken care of and helped to become strong, 
 everything that was unjust to be righted, 
 all that was bad to be changed into good. 
 
 " Only how are we to do it ? " he said. 
 " Such a lot of things would have to be 
 changed, wouldn t they ? " 
 
 "Well," I said, "you see all the great 
 changes for the better are always made be 
 cause a number of people make up their 
 minds singly, one by one, you know that 
 they ought to be brought about. It isn t a 
 hundred thousand people who do a thing all 
 at once in a mass in the first place a hundred 
 thousand individual minds have to work for 
 themselves singly. You know a lot of boys 
 how would it do to have a Looking For 
 ward Club, and let every boy be determined 
 to be the fairest, most straightforward, manly, 
 reasonable fellow he can, not only to the club 
 and himself, but to anyone he has to deal 
 with ? That would be a beginning/ 
 
 " So it would," agreed The Socialist. 
 
THE BOY WHO BECAME A SOCIALIST. 123 
 
 " Boys have so much to give each other," 
 1 said, " if they only thought of it. You 
 know I have had two boys, so I know how 
 interesting their lives are. They are rinding 
 out things and having new experiences 
 every day if they have quick minds. For 
 instance, there is your friend Sam, whom I 
 have such a respect for. He has always had 
 to take care of himself. He has sold news 
 papers and blacked boots all his little boy 
 years in the streets of a big city. Sam is all 
 right, you know. He has a good heart and 
 kind feelings, and it did them no harm that 
 he was ragged and bare-footed, and even 
 sometimes hungry, and think how much he 
 must have learned about business, and self- 
 dependence, and how much he must have 
 seen to touch his heart, and fill him with pity 
 and the wish to be able to help and make 
 things better. Sam is the beginning of an 
 energetic man with his mind all alive. And 
 you are the beginning of another, I hope, 
 and you have lived in an entirely different 
 way, and so each one of you must have so 
 much to tell the other. Sam has watched 
 baseball games, I have no doubt ; you have 
 seen great cricket matches at Lord s. Sam 
 has taken long tramps from one city to 
 another to sell his papers ; you have crossed 
 
124 CHILDREN T HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 the Atlantic in a big steamer year after year, 
 and have been on familiar terms with sailors 
 and engineers. Sam has sold papers at 
 inaugurations ; you have watched the kings 
 and queens, and princes and princesses, and 
 all the grand pageant of the Jubilee. Sam 
 knows how to manage a boot-black business 
 and understands the language of the boys 
 who take care of themselves ; you can speak 
 French and understand Italian. Sam knows 
 about * conventions ; y&u know about the 
 carnival in Italy, and have driven with your 
 carriage buried in bouquets in the Flower 
 Corso, and have thrown Coriandoli and 
 laughed at the Mascarati and danced at the 
 great Vegloni ball. Sam has talked to keen, 
 clever American politicians ; you know about 
 world-renowned English statesmen. Between 
 you two boys it appears to me you have a 
 great part of the world and the most interest 
 ing sides of life to discuss and compare notes 
 about. I really think, you know, that any 
 one listening while you talked and told each 
 other things might gain quite a respectable 
 education. And think what one might gain 
 from a number of boys all with different lives 
 and different views." 
 
 " Only," said The Socialist, " sometimes a 
 boy can t express himself." 
 
THE BOY WHO BECAME A SOCIALIST. 12$ 
 
 " That is what you would have to think of 
 in the most practical way," I answered. 
 t( Some boys chance to have words, and some 
 are, perhaps, not ready with them. If you are 
 a good Socialist, you must remember that gifts 
 are only workman s tools. The boy without 
 words may have something else some 
 thoughts and views that are worth ever so 
 much more. You must not laugh or treat 
 him lightly if he speaks badly. See if you 
 can t lend him your tools in some way." 
 
 The Socialist has words, and he used them 
 in his most delightful manner. We were 
 quite happy together. We disposed of 
 almost all the problems of the day in about 
 an hour, and we did not leave a wrong that 
 was not uprooted. 
 
 Darling Socialist, he is so energetic. 
 
 " I should like to begin this very day," he 
 said, walking up and down with his fists in 
 the pockets of the red and black blazer. 
 
 " We might in a small way," I said. 
 
 He turned to look at me. 
 
 " Are you going to laugh ? " he said. 
 
 " Far from it," I answered, though I con 
 fess I was smiling a little, but then I am 
 always smiling more or less when I talk with 
 The Socialist. 
 
 " One always has to begin with the little 
 
126 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 things, and I was thinking of something that 
 would be a part of the big scheme at all 
 events. You see one of the points is that 
 every one is to do his own work and not leave 
 any of it for the others to do. Now suppose 
 there was a boy " 
 
 The Socialist dimpled and gave a dramatic 
 little tap to the breast of the gay blazer. 
 
 "Well," I continued, " suppose he had a 
 habit of leaving things on the chairs and 
 tables tennis rackets and cricket bats in the 
 hall, books and hats and papers anywhere 
 they dropped. Of course somebody else who 
 had something else to do would have to pick 
 them up and put them away, and of course 
 that would take the time that belonged fairly 
 to their other work and it would not be fair 
 or Socialistic. You see the point is that if 
 you are a good Socialist you must not leave 
 your work to be done by someone else. Isn t 
 that true ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered The Socialist, quite beam 
 ing over the idea and laughing that dear 
 little laugh which to this day brings back to 
 me the years when he was almost a baby, 
 with a lot of curly bright hair and a face that 
 laughed all the time, and everyone laughed 
 back at. " If you are a good Socialist, you 
 will hang up your hat and not leave your 
 
THE BOY WHO BECAME A SOCIALIST. 1 27 
 
 bat in the hall or your racket on the 
 piano." 
 
 "That is the principle," I answered, while 
 he hugged me with the red and black sleeves, 
 "though I don t think Mr. Bellamy once 
 mentioned it." 
 
BIRDIE. 
 
 SHE was a little girl I knew when first I was 
 married, and I shall always remember her as 
 she was then, when she was seven years old 
 and we were intimate acquaintances. She 
 was in fact at that time the only very intimate 
 acquaintance I had, though I knew a good 
 many people. We were about the same age, 
 though it is true I had lived some time 
 longer than she had. But there was some 
 thing considerate about Birdie which made 
 me feel that after all they did not make so 
 much difference between us those few years 
 which had entitled me to be married. She 
 was much more mature and serious in some 
 ways than I was, but that probably arose 
 from her greater experience. She was the 
 mother of a most interesting family, and I 
 had not yet been introduced to Boy and the 
 Socialist. 
 
 It was indeed through a member of her 
 
BIRDIE. 129 
 
 family that we became such intimate friends. 
 It was through Miss Anna, who had been 
 stricken with the measles, and through an 
 incompleteness in the matter of rash which 
 was supposed to be " striking in " instead of 
 " coming out," was giving her parent the 
 gravest anxiety. 
 
 Miss Anna was not a young lady, as might 
 at first be supposed. She was a large doll, 
 and though she looked young, she was quite 
 advanced in years for a doll for she was 
 eighteen years old. She had been the doll 
 of Birdie s aunt, she was universally admired 
 and respected, and her head was made of 
 china. The first time I saw her I had driven 
 out to see Birdie s mamma at the charming 
 house in the country where they lived. 
 
 I think that as soon as I entered the room 
 I saw Miss Anna, and observed that she was 
 an invalid. She was lying in invalid state 
 upon a sofa, her kid arms were carefully 
 tucked away under the shawl that covered 
 her, and her blue china eyes were fixed 
 rather staringly upon space. Evidently she 
 was concentrating all the energies of a 
 gigantic china intellect upon her illness 
 whatever it might be (I have since thought 
 that probably fearing its effect on her com 
 plexion, which was extremely red and white 
 
 K 
 
130 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 she herself had determined that the rash 
 should not " come out "). 
 
 Having a strong private affection for dolls 
 (I find it even increases with years. I 
 cannot to-day pass the windows of Le Petit 
 Nain Bleu, in the Boulevard des Capucines, 
 without loitering) I could not help casting 
 an occasional interested glance at the sofa 
 while I talked to Birdie s mamma (and the 
 Major, " The Major," was Birdie s papa). 
 
 But suddenly my interest was greatly in 
 creased. The door opened, and a slender 
 delicate little girl came in, and seeming to 
 think that as the grown-up people* were 
 talking she would be unnoticed, went with 
 the most serious and absorbed little face to 
 the sofa. She was a very pretty child. I 
 think that I can best explain what she ex 
 pressed to me by using a French word, and 
 saying that she looked spiritudle. She was 
 very slight, and moved very softly, she had 
 fine brown hair, which hung loose, a pure 
 fair skin, with a faint rose-leaf colour, and a 
 delicate small face, with the clearest innocent 
 golden-brown eyes I ever saw. 
 
 All the unusualness and charm of the 
 small face one could not see in the first 
 moment. One would always see a pretty, 
 refined child but it was only after I knew her 
 
BIRDIE. 131 
 
 well that I explained to myself what her 
 unique charm was. 
 
 The clear eyes had the beauty of a crystal 
 pool in the deep forest, a pool which had 
 never been disturbed, and had never reflected 
 anything less sweet in nature than sunlight 
 filtered through the trees, and friendly little 
 birds chirping as they came to drink and 
 bathe their wings. They were such happy 
 eyes, such believing eyes, such childish 
 dreaming eyes one loved them as soon as 
 she lifted the long curled lashes. 
 
 She was busying herself so anxiously 
 about the sofa that I glanced questioningly 
 at the Major. 
 
 " Oh, that is Birdie," he said, with a kindly 
 and slightly humorous smile. " Birdie, come 
 and shake hands with Mrs. Burnett." 
 
 Birdie crossed the room and gave me her 
 hand and a sweet little smile. 
 
 I kept the hand in mine and gave her a 
 smile in return, but I tried to make it sympa 
 thetic, because I recognized at once that the 
 case of the invalid on the sofa was not one to 
 trifle with. I saw it in Birdie s countenance. 
 
 " I am very glad to see you," I said, " your 
 papa has talked to me about you. But I am 
 sorry you have illness in your family. I 
 hope it is not very serious." 
 K 2 
 
132 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 I was not laughing at all I would not 
 have laughed for worlds in that serious little 
 face. I tried quickly to imagine that I was 
 seven, and that I was right in the midst of a 
 belief that my favourite china child was ill, 
 and I knew it would disturb my feelings 
 very much if I were suddenly called from her 
 bedside to shake hands with a bride who 
 made light of me. 
 
 And in one second I saw in Birdie s clear 
 gold-brown eyes a look of relief and appre 
 ciation. She made friends with me on the 
 spot without any further preliminaries. 
 
 " I am afraid it is serious," she said, look 
 ing back at the sofa. " Miss Anna has the 
 measles very badly, and you know sometimes 
 the measles turn out dreadfully serious." 
 
 " Yes," I said, " the danger is, you know, if 
 they take the least cold. If you can just get 
 them through without taking cold they are 
 all right ; but if they catch cold, and it 
 strikes in, it s the most anxious thing. Would 
 it disturb her if I went and looked at her ? " 
 
 " I should be very glad if you would look 
 at her," said Birdie. 
 
 I saw her mamma and the Major glance at 
 each other as we left them, and the Major s 
 humorous eyes looked in a very quiet way 
 more humorous than ever, but he did not 
 
BIRDIE. 133 
 
 laugh at all. I discovered afterwards that he 
 never disturbed Birdie s beliefs and fancies, or 
 treated them with any disrespect which would 
 spoil them for her. 
 
 " You see she is flushed," I said, having 
 looked at Miss Anna. " If you keep her 
 warm, and give her hot things to drink, I 
 daresay she will have quite a beautiful rash 
 before night. I had a wax one once who 
 had scarlatina, and I think I saved her life 
 with hot camomile tea." 
 
 When I went away Birdie and I were no 
 longer acquaintances, but friends, and our 
 friendship was destined to be a very interest 
 ing one. 
 
 At first Birdie lived in the country, and I 
 in the town a few miles away, and during the 
 hot southern summer my visits to her home 
 used to be a great relief to me. The air was 
 so much cooler and fresher there, and there 
 were so many tall trees and so much shade. 
 Her house was built in the midst of a beauti 
 ful grove of pine and oak trees, and it was 
 chiefly while wandering under their shadows 
 that we had our most interesting conversa 
 tions. It was there I found out one of 
 Birdie s prettiest fancies, which ended in our 
 spending together one of the most delightful 
 mornings of my life. It was a lovely summer 
 
134 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 morning, and we were rambling- about to 
 gether, gathering a flower or so as we talked, 
 or stopping to catch a bird, or bending down 
 to examine some interesting little insect in 
 the grass. I had indeed gathered a good 
 deal of information on various subjects, be 
 cause " The Major," who had been a Con 
 federate officer, had become a Professor in a 
 well-known southern university, and he and 
 his little daughter, who were great friends, 
 were in the habit of exploring the woods in a 
 happy sort of way together, so Birdie really 
 knew many things about birds and insects 
 and rocks and flowers. 
 
 She had been saying something to me 
 about a certain kind of tall swaying grass I 
 admired, and she quietly stooped, tied the 
 long blades together, and bent them carefully 
 down in the part where the knot was. 
 
 "What are you doing that for ?" I asked. 
 
 " Ah ! " she answered quite simply, lifting 
 her clear eyes with a smile, " it is for the 
 fairies." 
 
 "For the fairies ?" I said. 
 
 " Well, you see," she said, glancing round 
 at the wind-swept, sun-dappled field flowers 
 and grasses, " there are so many of them 
 here. They live in the country, you know, 
 they don t like the town to live in they only 
 
You see she is flushed 
 
BIRDIE. 135 
 
 go there to see people they are fond of 
 Riverside" (that was the name of their 
 country house) " is full of them, and they are 
 so fond of swinging. So when I come out I 
 tie the tops of the long grasses and bend 
 them over. It makes a little swing, you 
 see." 
 
 I saw that it did, and I saw, too, that she 
 had not a shadow of a doubt that it would 
 sway to and fro with the light weight of a 
 fairy before it had time to wither. 
 
 11 1 do a great many things for them," she 
 said. " And they are so glad, and they do 
 so like me." 
 
 " Let us make some more swings," I said, 
 kneeling down and beginning to look for the 
 tallest grasses. " And tell me what other 
 things you do. Do you know them the 
 fairies, I mean ? " 
 
 "Oh, I know them," she answered, busy 
 ing herself with another swing, " but I have 
 never seen them. I just do things to make 
 them happy. You see they are so tiny, tiny, 
 tiny, that it isn t easy to see them. They 
 think we are giants, and they are rather 
 frightened of us until they know we are their 
 friends, and they run away and hide in flower 
 cups and under leaves and in the grass. 
 They know now that I won t hurt them, so 
 
136 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 perhaps I may see them some day. I hope I 
 shall. I never do anything that might make 
 them afraid of me, and I am always trying to 
 please them." 
 
 "I wish I could see them," I said, "I 
 always did so want to see a fairy." 
 
 "They are so pretty!" she said. "They 
 are dressed in clothes made of flowers, or 
 spun out of sparkling spiders webs, and they 
 have diamonds made of dew-drops, and some 
 times their ball-dresses are spun out of sun 
 shine and moonshine and that light white 
 morning mist." 
 
 Nothing could have been sweeter or more 
 perfectly simple and natural than her happy 
 sincerity. She spoke of the fairies as if she 
 were speaking of humming birds or butterflies 
 or bees. I felt as if they might be swarm 
 ing about us at that very minute. I tried to 
 pretend to myself that it was true, and I 
 succeeded pretty well too. I always liked 
 fairies, and it was delightful to kneel there in 
 the warm scented long grass and talk and act 
 as if they were real. 
 
 "Have they balls and ball-dresses?" I 
 asked. " But of course they have, because IVe 
 read about them." 
 
 " They are very fond of balls," she answered. 
 " They dance every night there is moonlight. 
 
BIRDIE. 137 
 
 They have asked Miss Anna to their balls 
 they are not afraid of her. They think she 
 is a sort of relation." 
 
 " Did she ever go ? " I inquired. 
 
 " Well, no ! She s small compared with us, 
 you know, but she is big compared to fairies, 
 and I think she was afraid she might tread 
 on some of them, and that would have spoiled 
 all their party." 
 
 " So it would," I replied. " But it would 
 have been nice if she could have gone and 
 sat down carefully, and just looked on. Then 
 she could have told you about it. Now we 
 have made swings enough ; what could we 
 do next ?" 
 
 " I have just thought of something very 
 important/ said Birdie. " There is a full 
 moon to-night, and they are going to have a 
 grand ball in the grove before the house, and 
 I was going to prepare their ball-room under 
 the oak tree that has a hollow in it. They 
 use the hollow for a bedroom to take off their 
 things in, and if any of them bring babies 
 they want very soft moss beds to lay them 
 on/ ; 
 
 " Do they bring their children sometimes ? " 
 I asked. 
 
 " They do just now. Roseleaf and Blossom 
 both have babies, and fairy babies are so tiny 
 
138 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 they daren t leave them alone, because the 
 least breath of wind might blow them away." 
 
 We left the fairy swings and went to the 
 oak at once, and began to work in the most 
 earnest manner. 
 
 First we cleared away all twigs and fallen 
 leaves and bits of pebble from under the tree, 
 and made a charming smooth place to dance 
 on. Then we made a fine moss carpet and 
 bordered it with fresh leaves, and, as a finish 
 ing touch, we made moss seats to rest on 
 between the dances. The supper - room 
 required much more work. First we had to 
 find a piece of "diamond stone," as Birdie 
 called it, which was the right shape and size, 
 and white enough and sparkling enough to 
 make a table. She said the sparkles were 
 really diamonds, and the fairies did not like 
 chairs or tables without diamonds. The 
 plates and dishes were made of small curled 
 rose petals, and the cups for the fairy wine 
 (which was dew, Birdie told me) were the cups 
 of the tiniest flowers we could find. It was 
 very pretty when it was all finished, and then 
 we prepared the bedroom in the hollow of 
 the tree. That was carpeted with leaves and 
 had moss beds and pillows for Roseleafs 
 and Blossom s babies. Indeed, it was all so 
 charming that it made me wish to be a fairy 
 
BIRDIE. 139 
 
 myself but that was nothing new, because I 
 had always wished I was a fairy. Birdie was 
 quite satisfied when we left the tree, and on 
 our way back to the house we talked in the 
 most animated way of what the fairies would 
 say when they saw our preparations for them, 
 and what they would do, and how much they 
 would like us for being so friendly. 
 
 It was a charming morning, which I shall 
 never forget. I had many charming morn 
 ings with Birdie. Our friendship grew more 
 and more intimate, and at the end of the 
 summer her family left their house in the 
 country and took a house in town, which was 
 just on the opposite side of the street from 
 mine. 
 
 But before that, I had a delightful visit from 
 Miss Anna. Birdie and I pretended that she 
 was obliged to visit some fashionable mineral 
 springs after her measles. So I carried her 
 to my house in town and kept her there. I 
 think I wrote one or two letters from her to 
 her mother describing her gay life at Mont- 
 vale or White Sulphur. But the truth was 
 that Miss Anna, was really with me, and I 
 was making her some new things to wear. I 
 remember there were some pocket handker 
 chiefs among them, and when she went back 
 to Riverside she was newly dressed and her 
 
140 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 mother found her looking very well and much 
 improved by the mineral waters. 
 
 It was after her family had taken possession 
 of the town house that I nearly made a fatal 
 error in speaking of Miss Anna to her mother. 
 
 Birdie was sitting in a swing in the garden 
 and I was on a low scat near her, and in 
 speaking of Miss Anna s many accomplish 
 ments, I said, " She is the nicest doll I ever 
 knew." 
 
 The most startled expression came into her 
 sensitive little face, and she put up her hand 
 as if to stop me. 
 
 " Oh, don t, Mrs. Burnett ! " she exclaimed. 
 " Oh, please, hush ! Never say she is a doll. 
 I never mention the word before her. It 
 would hurt her feelings so ! " 
 
 " Would it really ? " I said. " I m so sorry 
 I said it. She didn t hear it, though. She is 
 in her room asleep." 
 
 " Miss Anna doesn t know she is a doll," 
 said Birdie. " She never dreams it. She 
 thinks she is just like us, and I could not 
 bear to have her find out that her head is 
 made of china or that it seems like that to 
 people who don t love her. It isn t china to 
 me and neither are her arms kid but then 
 I m her mother." 
 
 Never again was I guilty of inferring that 
 
BIRDIE. 141 
 
 Miss Anna was a doll never so long as I 
 knew her. I should not mention it now only 
 I know she never reads papers, and my dear 
 little Birdie, who must be a grown-up young 
 lady by this time, would understand how far 
 I am from meaning any disrespect to her clear 
 old china memory. 
 
 It interested me very much to read after 
 wards in one of Miss Phelps books, of a little 
 girl who expressed exactly Birdie s idea, and 
 I wondered if perhaps Miss Phelps had not 
 heard it from a real child as I did. 
 
 It was very absorbing when Boy was intro 
 duced to Birdie and Miss Anna and myself. 
 Birdie s experience as a parent was very 
 useful to me in my first venture, and she had 
 a very good opinion of Boy, though I think 
 we were both quite frank in admitting that 
 just at first he was more big than exactly 
 beautiful. I went abroad the next spring, 
 and when I kissed Birdie for the last time I 
 thought we should be intimate friends again 
 in about two years. I wrote a story for her 
 while I was away. She and her brothers and 
 sisters published a little paper in their own 
 house and she asked me to write them some 
 thing. I sent it to her from London. It was 
 called " Behind the White Brick," and has 
 since been published with other short stories 
 
142 CHILDREN I HAVE KNOWN. 
 
 in a book. But since those days chance has 
 placed us almost at different ends of the 
 world. 
 
 Birdie must be by now a grown-up young 
 lady. Remembering her delicate spirititelle 
 little face and translucent golden-brown eyes, 
 I feel sure she is fair to look upon ; remem 
 bering her pretty innocent fancies and tender 
 beliefs, I am sure she must be lovable and 
 sweet. When I think of her, as I often do, 
 knowing how many fairy things seem to fade 
 away as one grows from a child to a woman, 
 I cannot help saying to myself wistfully, " I 
 hope she still believes in the fairies, and I 
 hope because she is so gentle and tender- 
 she sometimes sees one." 
 
$att II. 
 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER 
 
 AND 
 
 THE QUITE TRUE STORY OF 
 AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 GIOVANNI walked up the enclosed road lead 
 ing to the great white hotel with the many 
 marble balconies. It was quite a grand hotel 
 and stood in a garden where palm-trees and 
 orange-trees and flowers grew. A white 
 balustraded terrace separated the garden from 
 the carnage drive by the grey green olives, 
 and roses and heliotropes grew in tumbling 
 masses over the stone. It was on an eleva 
 tion and below it one could see the promenade 
 by the sea and the great lake-like sapphire 
 blue expanse of the Mediterranean. 
 
 There were palm-trees and flowers border 
 ing the promenade, and even in the winter 
 there were numbers of children walking about 
 with baskets full of violets and narcissus and 
 anemones, which they ran after the pedestrians 
 with, in the hope of selling. 
 
 The sun seemed always shining and the 
 
 L 
 
146 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 air soft there, and there were always flowers, 
 for the little town was a pretty quaint one 
 on the Riviera. It was called San Remo, 
 and in the winter was always full of foreigners 
 who came to see the sun when it seemed 
 finally to have left England, or to escape 
 from wind and cold when they were delicate. 
 
 Most of them the forestieri were more 
 or less delicate. Some of them had thin, 
 pale faces, and coughed and walked slowly, 
 some of them were pulled about in invalid 
 rolling chairs, and often one saw one in deep 
 mourning, and might guess either that some 
 one b2longing to them had come to the south 
 to get well and had died in the midst of the 
 flowers and palms and orange-trees, or that 
 having lost some one they loved in some 
 other place, had come, to try to bear the shock 
 of their grief in the land where the sunshine 
 might help them a little. 
 
 But whatever had happened to bring them, 
 whether they were well or ill, or burdened 
 with sorrow, they always were pleased with 
 two things. They always were pleased with 
 the flowers and carried them about in bunches, 
 and if any one played the guitar and mandolin 
 and sang well they were pleased and gave 
 money to the players and singers. 
 
 So there were many flower sellers in the 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 147 
 
 streets and many flower shops in the town, 
 and there were many people who wandered 
 about with mandolins and guitars, playing 
 before the hotels, and generally having with 
 them some one who either could sing sweetly 
 or who tried to. In the latter case some 
 times they got money to induce them to go 
 away to the next hotel, at least. 
 
 Giovanni was one of those who fortunately 
 could sing, and a man went with him who 
 played the harp. 
 
 He was a handsome Italian boy about 
 fourteen years old. He was strong and 
 plump and well-built, and had a dark-eyed, 
 merry, pretty face, and a gay, bright smile. 
 It was rather a lovable face, and when money 
 was thrown to him from the balconies, and 
 he ran and picked it up, pulling off his cap 
 and saying, " Grazie, Signora," or " Signorina," 
 or " Signer," as the case might be, his quick 
 little bow was often returned by a nod. 
 
 They had so much money, these forestieri, 
 Giovanni thought they might well be good- 
 natured. Think what lives they must have, 
 these people who were rich enough to travel 
 away from unpleasant weather, and who lived 
 in the great gay hotels, eating wonderful 
 things three times a day, waited upon by 
 dozens of servants, and with an imposing con- 
 
 L 2 
 
148 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 cierge in uniform and gold buttons, who 
 appeared on the broad, white marble, flower- 
 bordered entrance steps, and, calling up a 
 waiting carriage with a majestic wave of the 
 hand and a loud "Avante," carried out to 
 it wraps and cushions, and held the door open 
 while the signoras entered, touching his gold- 
 banded cap gracefully as they drove away. 
 Ah ! what a life it must be to be sure. 
 
 But though he was only a little peasant, 
 Giovanni knew that fortune had not been 
 so unkind to him after all. He had his voice, 
 and had had luck with it ever since the man 
 with the harp had proposed that he should 
 go and sing with him before the hotels and 
 villas. Giovanni had a share of the money, 
 and he was comfortably fed and given warm 
 clothes, even to the extent of having a scarf 
 to wrap round his throat on chilly nights, 
 for fear he should catch cold and become 
 hoarse. The man with the harp knew he was 
 worth something. 
 
 He had a full, sweet, strong voice, and he 
 sang his songs of the people with a melodious 
 freshness. He had a little repertoire of his 
 own, and was not reduced to singing " Santa 
 Lucia" as often as many of the. street 
 troubadours. There was a little song of a 
 reproachful lover who rather embarrassingly 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 149 
 
 recalls the past to his unkind fair one. " When 
 I am far away," he says, " you will remember 
 the kisses you have given me. Yes, you will 
 remember then," &c. 
 
 And Giovanni used to stand with his hands 
 on his hips and pour forth these reproaches 
 in his clear, full, boyish voice, looking so 
 happy and young and content that it was 
 very charming. And then there was " O je 
 Carolie," and the Ritirata, and the gayest 
 one of all a rattling little one about the 
 Bersaglieri the dashing sharpshooters who 
 went " double quick " through life in their 
 picturesque cloaks and broad-brimmed hats 
 on one side, with the great plumes of cock s 
 feathers sweeping their shoulders. 
 
 " The Bersaglieri have feathers on their 
 hats," he sang in Neapolitan dialect. " How 
 many little capons and hens have to be de 
 stroyed to provide all this beauty. Love the 
 Bersaglieri Love them they are the sa 
 viours of your country." And all so gaily 
 and with such a swing to the air that one 
 could imagine a Bersagliere hearing him would 
 rush forward and shower upon him unlimited 
 soldi. 
 
 The morning my story begins with was a 
 perfect one. It was in January, but San 
 Remo was flooded with brilliant sunshine, 
 
ISO GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 the Mediterranean was like a great sapphire, 
 the air was as soft as if it had been May. 
 Giovanni was in a joyous humour but then 
 he usually was as he and the man with the 
 harp mounted the long flight of stone steps 
 which led into the hotel garden, 
 
 " I wonder how much we shall get," he 
 said to his companion. " The Grand Hotel 
 des Anglais has not been so full this month." 
 That was the name of the hotel they were 
 going to sing and play before. 
 
 The man with the harp planted it in a good 
 position before the long flight of broad white 
 marble entrance steps. There were big pots 
 of palms and azaleas and flowering plants of 
 various sorts on each side of the steps all 
 the way up to the glass door which one of 
 the servants always stood behind, ready to 
 open. 
 
 Giovanni took his usual boyish pose with 
 his hands on his hips and began to sing. He 
 sang the song of the reproachful lover and 
 the Bella Sorrentina, and in the middle of the 
 last he heard a window open. This was a 
 sound always to be noted, because it meant 
 that someone was coming out on to the bal 
 cony to listen and would probably throw him 
 some money. But he was artist enough not 
 to look up until his song was finished. Even 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 151 
 
 if money was thrown he did not move until 
 his song was over. Then he used to run and 
 pick it up, lifting his cap in recognition. 
 
 When he had finished La Bella Sorrentina 
 he glanced over the front of the hotel. 
 There were several balconies which belonged 
 to the larger apartments, to the people who 
 had suites of two or three rooms and private 
 salons. At the end of one of these a lady 
 was standing leaning against the marble 
 balustrade and resting her forehead on her 
 hand as she looked down at him. 
 
 Giovanni saw that she was one of the 
 forestieri who were in deep mourning. She 
 was all black but that she had blonde hair 
 which the morning sun was shining on. 
 There was something sad and fatigued about 
 her attitude, and as he looked up she touched 
 her eyes lightly with the finger of the hand 
 that shaded them ; with the other hand she 
 made a motion to Giovanni. She held a tiny 
 white package in it. It was some money folded 
 in a piece of paper so that it could be easily 
 seen and found where she threw it. 
 
 Giovanni went and stood under her bal 
 cony. She smiled down at him and threw 
 the bit of paper with a sort of friendly, almost 
 caressing, gesture which made him feel that 
 she had liked his voice very much, and which 
 
152 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 caused him to lift his cap with spirit and call 
 out with more than usual feeling his " Grazie, 
 Signora." 
 
 Then he ran back to the harp put the 
 white paper into the harpist s pocket, without 
 looking at it or opening it at all which was 
 really quite dignified artistic taste for a boy 
 street singer and he began the song about 
 the Bersaglieri. The lady in black rested 
 against the marble balustrade again and 
 shaded her eyes with her hand. 
 
 As she did so a tall girl came out upon the 
 balcony and stood close to her. She was a 
 girl with a lovely rounded face and black- 
 lashed grey eyes. 
 
 " What a beautiful voice ! " she exclaimed 
 enthusiastically. "What a darling, full, 
 sweet boy voice ! What a good voice ! And 
 how well he sings." 
 
 " He has a dear boy face too," said the 
 other. " He looks so bright and happy. He 
 looks about as old as Geof, I think. He has 
 just sung one of Geof s songs, La bella 
 Sorrentina ; you know he sings that." 
 
 The girl gave her a soft quick, side glance, 
 and drew closer to her, touching her caress 
 ingly. 
 
 "Don t, dear," she said, "you must not 
 have tears in your eyes." 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER 153 
 
 " Well," answered the lady in black, quietly, 
 and looking over the olives at the sea, " it is 
 so strange how every moment something 
 reminds me. Everything makes me remem 
 ber something the palm trees and oranges 
 and flowers that we hoped he would be 
 strong enough to be brought to see the 
 Mediterranean that he used to plan to use 
 his launch on ah! everything has some 
 connection of thought with him and when 
 that boy began, it brought back the days 
 when Geof used to stand singing with his 
 hands on his hips and how he used to sit 
 near and listen and think it was so clever. 
 He used to say, Oh, Geof can sing. He s 
 got a voice but I couldn t do it. I 
 
 o 
 
 never saw such a fellow as Geof, he can do 
 anything/ You know he always admired 
 GeoPs gifts, in a boyish way. And I could 
 not help thinking that if if all the stories 
 are quite true, the stories of the Far Country 
 where he has gone perhaps now he sings 
 too." 
 
 She drew her palm softly and quickly 
 across her cheek. 
 
 " It makes me feel as if I loved that little 
 fellow down there," she said. " Boys always 
 seem near to me, you know. There, he has 
 finished singing and they are going." 
 
154 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 That was the beginning of Giovanni s 
 acquaintance with the lady in black. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 HE used to come back to sing before the 
 hotel twice a week, and always after the first 
 few bars of his song she used to appear on the 
 balcony and lean on the marble and listen, 
 and watch him: He was always sure of 
 having his silver franc thrown down, folded 
 in paper. On the morning of the Flower 
 Corso, at the end of the Carnival, she threw 
 him two, and often the girl with the grey 
 eyes threw him one also. They never threw 
 him coppers, and they generally waved their 
 hands to him and said, " Buon giorno," as he 
 picked up his money. 
 
 Whether money was thrown from other 
 balconies or not he was always sure of his 
 little revenue from the one where the black 
 figure stood listening. 
 
 Being a bright, spirited boy who liked to 
 be appreciated, he began to rather look for 
 ward to his mornings before the hotel. He 
 felt somehow as if these ladies liked him and 
 were his friends. He began even to feel that 
 he had a sort of claim upon them, and he 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 155 
 
 always sang his best under their balcony and 
 made his most graceful bow. 
 
 One day they were walking through the 
 town and a boy passing them stepped aside 
 from the narrow pavement, and pulling off 
 his cap said brightly, 
 
 " Buon giorno, Signoras." 
 
 The tall girl turned to look at him. 
 
 " Ah," she said, " that is our boy who sings. 
 He is alone and he knew us and said Buon 
 giorno. " 
 
 The lady in black turned also. "Yes, it 
 is our boy," she said. "Ah, let us go back 
 and talk to him a little. I want to see him 
 closer." 
 
 To Giovanni s surprise they turned back and 
 came towards him. He stopped and pulled 
 off his cap again. He had a smooth, pretty 
 dark-haired head, and seen close to he was a 
 handsome boy with a merry smiling face. 
 
 " You sing for us before our hotel, don t 
 you ? " said the grey-eyed girl, speaking 
 Italian. 
 
 " Si, Signorina," he answered, feeling 
 pleased at her gentle, friendly manner. 
 
 " What is your name ? " 
 
 " Giovanni Calcagni." 
 
 " And you are fond of music ? " 
 
 " Si, si, Signorina," smiling. 
 
156 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 Then they asked him how old he was and 
 where he had learned to sing, and he told 
 them he was fourteen and had always sung 
 little songs ; but about three years ago a one- 
 eyed man had taken him about with him to 
 sing before the villas and hotels, and so he 
 had learned to sing better. 
 
 " The Signora here," said the tall girl, " has 
 a boy who is fourteen years old, like you, and 
 he has a beautiful voice and sings some of 
 our Italian songs, so the Signora likes to hear 
 you sing, very much." 
 
 " Is the Signorine in San Remo?" Gio 
 vanni asked. 
 
 " No, he is not in San Remo. He is in 
 America." 
 
 Giovanni had heard of America. It 
 was far away. A long voyage across 
 the sea. People went there and became 
 rich. There had been a San Remese sailor, 
 quite a common man, who had gone there, 
 and after two years had come back and built 
 a wonderful villa by the sea. It was a 
 marvellously ornamental villa, fantastically 
 decorated. Giovanni had once heard that 
 there were forestieri who smiled at it and 
 said it was decorated like a wedding cake. 
 But it was known to have cost a great deal of 
 money, and the owner had made all this 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 157 
 
 money in America, though no one knew how. 
 Probably he had picked it up in the streets. 
 
 This made the lady in black and her 
 friend additionally interesting. They were 
 of course rich, as they lived at the Grand 
 Hotel des Anglais and threw out silver to 
 singers. But it was more than interesting to 
 hear of a boy of his own age who lived in 
 America and also sang La Bella Sorrentina, 
 and the rest, in Italian. It seemed enviable. 
 
 The lady in black looked at him with 
 longing in her eyes, and she gave him a franc 
 for himself on the spot, and then the two 
 smiled and left him. 
 
 " I wonder," said the lady in black, as 
 they walked along the promenade under the 
 palm trees, " I wonder if he will have a fine 
 voice when he is a man. It is difficult to 
 tell, I suppose ; I have always heard so. 
 Musicians always advise me not to let Geof 
 use his voice too much now he is growing 
 older." 
 
 " That is the great point, I believe," said 
 her companion. " Giovanni s voice is a 
 beautiful one, but it may not be so fine when 
 it changes into a man s voice certainly it 
 won t if he strains it by singing too much 
 now and by forcing his notes." 
 
 " It would be a cruel thing for it to be 
 
158 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 spoiled," returned the lady in black, re 
 flectively. " Think what a future it might 
 make for him if, when he is a young man, he 
 had that splendid gift." 
 
 " Now you are making a story out of 
 him," said the girl, with a caressing little 
 laugh. " You are imagining he may have a 
 career before him and be a world-renowned 
 tenor. I know your little ways." 
 
 The lady in black smiled. 
 
 " Yes," she answered, " of course. I am a 
 romantic person, and I will have my story 
 whenever there is a shadow of a chance. See 
 what a story it would be, Gertrude. Here he 
 is Giovanni, a perfectly simple, ordinary 
 little peasant boy, singing about the streets 
 with a one-eyed man and a harpist, and 
 feeling quite rich when one throws him a 
 franc. I have no doubt he thinks it is quite 
 splendid to be one of the forestieri and live 
 in a hotel. He probably lives in one of the 
 queer old, old tumbling down houses in the 
 * Citta Vecchia one of those in the climbing 
 streets which are like corridors, and have 
 little archways thrown from house to house, 
 and apparently no windows, only tiny square 
 holes, with rusty bars across. You remember 
 how dark they are, and how green things 
 grow out of the stones, and how sometimes 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 1 59 
 
 there are sheep or cows in the room on the 
 first floor. 
 
 " We will suppose he lives there, and sits 
 with the sheep when it is cold. He eats 
 polenta and farinata and castagnone those 
 brownish and yellowish slabs which look 
 like uninviting pudding when one sees them 
 being cooked over the charcoal fires in the 
 narrow streets. They are made of maize 
 or chestnut flour, and it does not give one 
 an appetite to look at them. Sometimes 
 he has maccaroni and goat cheese, and 
 in the summer he eats ripe figs and grapes 
 and black bread. Perhaps he never had a 
 franc all to himself until I gave him that 
 one to-day. I wonder what he will do with 
 it ? Perhaps he will buy that hard sticky 
 cake made of nuts. He looks like a dear 
 boy, but I don t think he looks imaginative 
 or ambitious. I don t imagine he dreams 
 about a career. Now imagine that this 
 beautiful boy s voice changes into a wonderful 
 tenor. Imagine that someone helps him to 
 cultivate it, and brings him before the world, 
 and it begins to applaud and adore him." 
 
 " It would be like a fairy story," said 
 Gertrude, " he would think he was living in a 
 dream." 
 
 "He would be rich," said the lady in black. 
 
160 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 " He would travel from country to country, and 
 everywhere he would be feted and caressed. 
 Of course we are imagining him to be a sort 
 of king of tenors, and not one with an 
 ordinarily good voice. Kings and queens 
 would hear him and praise him, and if he 
 were a charming fellow would make a sort 
 of favourite of him. I think he would be a 
 charming fellow, don t you ? He has a bright, 
 handsome face." 
 
 The girl with the grey eyes turned to look 
 down at her friend (she was the taller of the 
 two) with her soft caressing little laugh. 
 
 "I think he would," she said; "we will 
 imagine he would be perfectly beautiful and 
 perfectly delightful as we are imagining 
 things. It makes the story prettier." 
 
 " That is the advantage of imagining," said 
 her friend. " One can make the story as 
 pretty as one likes. I wonder if he has a 
 mother in the Citta Vecchia, and if he would 
 remember her and her love when he was a 
 great tenor ? Let us imagine that he would 
 and imagine how proud and radiantly 
 happy she would be. Poor little peasant 
 woman, I hope the grandeur and the kings 
 and queens would not frighten her." 
 
 " Think how she would feel sitting in a 
 box at the opera at La Scala, for instance," 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. I6l 
 
 said the girl. " She would have had to lay 
 aside her short petticoats and her peasant 
 bodice, and have learned to wear a bonnet 
 instead of a red and yellow and green hand 
 kerchief tied over her head." 
 
 "And she would have very large grand 
 ear-rings, I am sure," went on the lady iti 
 black, with a little softly-smiling reflective 
 air. " Giovanni would have given them to 
 her for a present. Don t you think she 
 would choose some of those big ancient ones 
 we see in the curiosity shops, with queer 
 stones in them and a great deal of turquoise? 
 They say those have all been bought from 
 peasants. I think she would be sure to want 
 a pair. Diamonds would seem quite cold 
 and plain to her, dear simple old thing. 
 She would want turquoise and garnets and 
 amethysts and yellow old pearls set elabo 
 rately in silver gilt." 
 
 " How real she seems," smiled the girl 
 with the grey eyes ; and then they looked 
 at each other, and her friend smiled also. 
 
 " Well," she said, " he has a voice and he 
 might have a career and it is more than 
 probable that he has a mother so it is easy 
 to imagine a story for him. I wish we could 
 do something to help to make it real. Why 
 should he eat polenta and live like a peasant 
 
 M 
 
1 62 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 always if he has a gift ? I am going to think 
 about him, and see if well, if there is any 
 thing to be done." 
 
 "You always want to make your stories 
 come true, don t you ?" said her companion. 
 
 The lady in black looked out far over the 
 sunlight sapphire sea. She seemed to be 
 thinking of something that stirred in her a 
 sad tenderness. 
 
 " I might make him one of Leo s friends," 
 she said, " one of those boys he helps." 
 
 " You are always thinking of Leo, I think," 
 the girl said very gently. " He seems very 
 near to you, dear." 
 
 " Very near/ was the answer. " I could 
 not let him seem far away. He is more real 
 than anything else. Sometimes I think he 
 seems even more real than Geof, who is alive 
 and strong and happy, and always busy. A 
 year ago Leo was alive and like him. He 
 was so strong and bright, and so full of the 
 things he was interested in. I can t let him 
 go just because of that morning when his 
 brown eyes closed so softly and his arms 
 unclasped themselves and slipped slowly 
 away from my neck. I must comfort myself 
 in some way so I try to imagine things 
 about him too and I try to make them seem 
 quite real." 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 163 
 
 The girl with the grey eyes put her hand 
 through her arm and drew it to her side with 
 a tender pressure. 
 
 "Dear!" she said. 
 
 Two large quiet drops slipped down her 
 friend s cheeks, but no others followed them, 
 and she went on speaking, with even a little 
 smile on her lips. 
 
 " I say to myself that he has gone to a 
 Fair Far Country," she said. " Perhaps it is 
 because I am a very earthly person that I 
 have to make it so real to myself. I tell my 
 self that other mother s sons go away to far 
 countries to live. You know there are so 
 many who go to foreign lands to make their 
 fortunes. But their mothers do not feel as if 
 they had lost them. And I know they must 
 comfort themselves by doing things for them 
 and reading books about the countries they 
 have gone to. If Leo had gone to Africa, 
 think how I should have read about Africa, 
 As it is, I read over and over the parts of those 
 last chapters which tell about the City, the City 
 that has streets of pure gold, like unto clear 
 glass. It always seemed like a beautiful 
 fairy story, until Leo went away. And then 
 I was so hungry for him it seemed as if I 
 must have something real to think of, so I 
 began to read, and imagine. I wish there 
 M 2 
 
164 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 was more to read. I like to remember that 
 * the gates of it shall not be shut at all by 
 day and there is no night there. He was 
 so happy when he was on earth I can t help 
 trying to make it a place that would not 
 seem too dazzling and strange and solemn 
 for a boy to like. He was only such a boy, 
 you know, and at first I could not help feeling 
 timid and hoping that it would not overwhelm 
 and bewilder him. I try to remember more 
 about the green pastures and the river of 
 crystal than about the walls of jasper and 
 sapphire, and emerald, and the streets of gold. 
 But somehow I love the gates made of great 
 pearls, and always standing open." 
 
 "You do make it real, don t you, dear?" 
 said the girl. 
 
 " I must make it real, I must do things to 
 comfort myself and make me feel that I am 
 not letting him go. That is why I have my 
 fancy about helping those other boys whom 
 I call his friends. If he had lived to be a 
 man he might have had sorrow and pain 
 and disappointment he might have known 
 temptation and have fallen into human fault. 
 That is all over for him he can never be 
 touched now. Why should not I go on with 
 the sweet kind things he might have done ? 
 You know there would have been many of 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 1 6$ 
 
 them. He had a tender, generous heart 
 and in the life of a man with a heart like that 
 there must be many good things done for 
 others, even if there should be human weak 
 ness and sorrow too. I don t want the sweet 
 things to go undone just because he has died. 
 That would be as if those he might have 
 helped had been robbed of a friend. When 
 he was a baby I used to say, I want the big 
 world to be better just because he lives. 
 Now I say, I want it to be better even that 
 he has lived and died/ " 
 
 " And that is why you are so interested in 
 Giovanni ? I knew it was like that, dear," 
 with another soft pressure of the arm. 
 
 "In Giovanni in any boy whose life 
 might be made brighter and broader in any 
 boy who needs help or a friend. It might 
 not always be money that would help them 
 most. It might be something else. What 
 ever is done it is not I who do it it is Leo. 
 Leo, who will never be tempted or made sad 
 by life, but who goes on living and holding 
 out his kind, boyish, friendly young hand to 
 other boys who must finish their lives and bear 
 all the burdens of them. He was spared them 
 all. He lived a few bright, buoyant, joyous 
 years without a shadow or a stain. Now he 
 seems to me like a magnificent, fair young 
 
1 65 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 prince in his royal city, with his hands full of 
 royal gifts, and his soul full of tender yearning 
 for those who are outside the gates and who 
 must toil longer in the heat of the sun." 
 
 u And he will help Giovanni ? " said her 
 friend. " I see that/ 
 
 "He will try," was the answer. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE little salon out of which one stepped 
 on to the white marble balcony was a very 
 pretty one. It had not been particularly 
 pretty when the lady in black and her friend 
 first took possession of it. Then it had worn 
 the usual ungarnished air of nearly all hotel 
 rooms. Now it was quite bright and gay. 
 The curiosity shops had been levied upon for 
 antique brocades, for rich tenderly-faded old 
 vestments whose colours of a hundred or two 
 years ago had melted into wondrous shades, 
 and which were draped on the walls, and 
 thrown over pieces of furniture. There were 
 many cushions covered with squares of such 
 brocade, there were draperies over the doors, 
 there were Spanish fans and odd trifles here 
 and there, there were studies of peasants and 
 the Citta Vecchia, and branches of orange 
 trees, and clives, and eucalyptus blossom, 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 1 67 
 
 there were bits of Louis Quartorze silver and 
 china, and painted and gilded fans on the 
 mantel ; there were bowls and vases of jon 
 quils and mimosa, and narcissi and violets 
 everywhere there were many violets, the air 
 was full of their breath, and wheresoever one s 
 eye turned it rested on the pictured face of a 
 boy, who watched one with shadowy velvet 
 dark eyes. There were several pictures of 
 him, and each one had before it a cluster of 
 violets. 
 
 " He had always been used to seeing 
 me wear violets," his mother said. " When 
 he was a little fellow he used to bring 
 me all he could find in the garden. And 
 the first time he was in London he saw 
 some crystallized bunches in a confectioner s 
 in Regent s Street, and he spent all his 
 pennies to buy me some, and brought them to 
 me for a present, with such an innocent pride. 
 When he was ill and people sent him flowers, 
 he used to say to his nurse : * Give all the 
 violets to mammie. All the violets are for 
 her. When he went to sleep that last day I 
 covered him with them. In the medallion 
 with his miniature, which I always wear, 
 there is one shut inside with him. They 
 mean so much more to me now." 
 
 When they were not walking or driving 
 
1 68 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 together she and the girl with the grey eyes 
 used to sit in this little salon among the 
 flowers and soft colours and talk of their 
 problems and dreams and imaginings. They 
 had a great many. Theirs was a very dear 
 friendship. They loved and understood each 
 other very tenderly and completely. They 
 had the same emotions, the same fancies. 
 There was never any danger that one could 
 be too imaginative or subtle for the other. 
 They had the same tastes and sympathies 
 and the shades in which they varied only 
 gave interest to their thoughts and words. 
 
 The evening after they had met Giovanni 
 was mild and warm, and the windows on the 
 balcony were open. The lady in black lay 
 upon a sofa with many cushions. 
 
 In the midst of their quiet talk the strings 
 of a guitar were touched in the garden below. 
 It was rather a good guitar, and the opening 
 bars of a song were being played. 
 
 " Someone is going to sing," said the lady 
 in black ; " but it is not Giovanni. He is 
 always with the harpist." 
 
 And then they heard the singer begin his 
 song. 
 
 " It is far from being Giovanni s voice," 
 exclaimed Gertrude. " Poor thing, how bad 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 169 
 
 Her friend raised her head to listen. 
 
 " And it is a boy s voice, too," she said ; 
 "but it sounds all strained and cracked. Ah, 
 how pitiful. He ought not to sing at all." 
 
 "It is strained/ said Gertrude. "Poor 
 boy, it has been a good voice once perhaps 
 as good as Giovanni s. But he has been sing 
 ing too much, and has forced it until it is 
 broken. What a cruel pity ! " 
 
 It was a piteous enough thing to hear the 
 poor voice rising from among the palms and 
 roses below. It was so roughened, so strained 
 and broken. 
 
 " It makes me sad," said the mother. " It 
 sounds so mournful rising out of the dark. 
 Giovanni comes and sings in the morning 
 when all the world is full of sunshine and he 
 seems like a happy young bird. This poor 
 boy stands alone there in the darkness as if he 
 knew his helplessness and did not care to be 
 seen. I wonder if Giovanni knows him ; if 
 he knows Giovanni, and if it is not a bitter 
 thing for him. Let us go and look down at 
 him." 
 
 They went out on to the balcony and looked 
 down, but they could not really see the singer. 
 They could only imagine they saw a shadow 
 which might after all be part of the shade 
 behind some orange trees ; but the poor 
 
170 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 hoarse voice struggled through the song to 
 the end. 
 
 "No one opens the windows to throw 
 him money," said the lady in black. " They 
 don t want to hear him. I do not want to 
 hear him it is too sad ; but I shall throw 
 him money. He needs it more than 
 Giovanni. Everybody gives him something 
 everyone wants him. No one wants the 
 poor other one." 
 
 They put some silver in an envelope and 
 threw it down. The shadow seemed to move 
 forward slowly and as if with a dragging 
 step. 
 
 " Do you know," said the lady in black, 
 " I have a fancy that he really does not care 
 to be seen. Let us go back into the salon? 
 And they quietly slipped away. 
 
 This was the opening of the story of " the 
 Other." It was a sad story and he was never 
 more than a shadow. They always called him 
 " the Other," and they never saw him ; but they 
 spoke of him even more than they spoke 
 of Giovanni whom they saw three times a 
 week. 
 
 Somehow the poor cracked voice singing 
 in the darkness had touched them very much. 
 It was so evident that it had been a beautiful 
 voice once, and that only bad manage- 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 171 
 
 mcnt and perhaps bad health had been its 
 ruin. 
 
 " Do you know who the poor boy is who 
 sang last night ? " they asked the concierge. 
 
 " No, Madame/ was the answer, though 
 the concierge usually knew everything. " He 
 docs not come often and it is always dark. 
 It is very bad his singing. The people do 
 not like it. They say it disturbs them, it is 
 so bad." 
 
 " It is too late to save his voice now," the 
 two friends said to each other afterwards, 
 "but if we could do something kind for him 
 it would be a comfort." 
 
 Only it was plain that he did not wish to be 
 seen. He came only rarely, and always at 
 night, and always stood in the shadow of the 
 trees. So they could only throw him money 
 and go back to their salon and talk to each 
 other about him pityingly. 
 
 Somehow they never could hear Giovanni 
 or speak of him without speaking also of " the 
 Other." 
 
 " No one but ourselves throws him money," 
 said the lady in black, sadly, once. " Perhaps 
 he is poor and comes just for what he gets 
 from us. It makes it all the sadder. Think 
 of going about from place to place singing in 
 that dreary, piteous voice, and knowing that 
 
1/2 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 no one wishes to listen, and that if money is 
 given it is only from pity or to rid oneself of 
 the annoyance of hearing. To me it seems a 
 sort of tragedy. It is tragic if he is a boy 
 who feels and thinks. I cannot help hoping 
 that he does not know Giovanni, and so 
 cannot feel the contrast. Giovanni is so rosy 
 and strong and plump I feel as if the 
 Other must be thin and haggard and pale." 
 
 " He is a story to you too/ 5 said Gertrude. 
 
 " Ye?, and I cannot make it anything but 
 a . c ad one." 
 
 Because it was a sad one her mind dwelt 
 on it, She found herself wondering each 
 day if at night the broken voice would sing 
 in the dark. They did not hear it more than 
 half a dozen times, and it was heard on no 
 stated day. 
 
 " Perhaps it is wrong even to throw the 
 money to him," she said. " It may be that 
 it encourages him to sing ; and, perhaps, if 
 he did not sing at all and gave his poor voice 
 a rest it might recover itself. Do you think 
 it might, Gertrude ? " 
 
 " I am afraid not," Gertrude answered. " I 
 am afraid it is too far gone." 
 
 The next day they sent the concierge to ask 
 Giovanni to come to their salon to talk to 
 them. 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 173 
 
 Pie came in the afternoon, evidently feeling 
 a little awkward, but looking rosy and pleased. 
 He had had too much simple success and good 
 luck to be really very shy. 
 
 It was certainly true that he was not the 
 restless, yearning, ambitious musical genius 
 of romance. He was a simple, well-favoured, 
 good-humoured little peasant, fond of music 
 in a primitive unimpassioned way, and ap 
 preciative of the good fortune which had 
 given him a good voice. They found out that 
 he had sometimes been to school, that he 
 had once had three " mentions/ that he was 
 rather tired of street singing, that he had been 
 taught something of music by a certain 
 Maestro Mecheri, whose business it was to 
 train the choruses at the tiny theatre. All 
 that he knew of his singing he had learned 
 from Maestro Mecheri. 
 
 " Does he tell you that you have a very 
 good voice ? " asked the lady in black. 
 
 " Yes, Signora, he says it is a good 
 voice." 
 
 " And he tells you, I daresay, that you 
 must take care of it and not strain it at all ?" 
 
 "Yes, Signora, he warns me of that." 
 
 "You see," the lacly went on, leaning a 
 little forward and smiling, " you are growing. 
 In a short time it will change into a young 
 
174 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 man s voice ; and if you force it and go on 
 singing while it is changing you may spoil it 
 for ever. But if you are careful it may be 
 come such a voice as as everybody shall care 
 to hear. Has Maestro Mecheri told you that ? " 
 
 It was plain that Maestro Mecheri was not 
 an imaginative person himself, and that he 
 confined himself to the present and his im 
 mediate surroundings principally. The limi 
 tations of his experience were perhaps good 
 enough under the circumstances. 
 
 " He says that I must not sing in the streets 
 much longer," said Giovanni ; " and I must 
 live well, and not ramble about at night." 
 
 " He is quite right," said the lady in black. 
 " Have you ever thought that you would like 
 to choose music for a profession to care for 
 your voice and train it and be a musician a 
 singer ? " She spoke with a sense of some in 
 ward uncertainty. He was so good-temperedly 
 prosaic about it all. 
 
 He smiled and gave a little shrug of his 
 shoulders. " I should like it," he said 
 " Sometimes they make fortunes, they say 
 those who have good voices and sing on the 
 stage." 
 
 " Yes," said the lady in black. " A beauti 
 ful voice is a great gift and brings great for 
 tune sometimes. When you stop singing in 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 1/5 
 
 the street it would be a good thing for you to 
 go to school again if you could. It would pre 
 pare you to learn other things better to train 
 your voice and study music more easily if 
 the time came when you wanted to do it. 
 Maestro Macheri would tell you that too." 
 
 " It is possible," said Giovanni. " He tells 
 me oftenest I must not strain my voice and 
 that I must not vagabond about at night. 
 There is a boy we know of who had a fine 
 voice it was very fine " 
 
 The lady in black and the girl with the 
 grey eyes leaned a little more towards him 
 and looked interested, and rather eager. 
 
 " He used to sing as I do," continued 
 Giovanni. " Maestro Mecheri says his voice 
 was even better than mine. People gave him 
 a great deal of money when he sang. But he 
 was not like me. He was not so strong, Maestro 
 Mecheri said, and he was not steady in his 
 temper. He was always talking about music 
 and having fancies of what he might do when 
 he grew up. He had been talked to by some 
 Signore who came from America, and it had 
 put ideas into his head. Me " with a 
 bright simple smile, " I have no ideas. The 
 other he had many, and they made him 
 restless." 
 
 "The Other," exclaimed the lady in black, 
 
i;6 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 in English. And she and the girl with the 
 grey eyes looked at each other again. 
 
 " They spoiled him," Giovanni went on. 
 " He used to sing too much. Maestro Mecheri 
 said he was too impatient, and he ought to 
 have let his voice rest. He was older than I. 
 He got a cold and began to cough, and he 
 could not wait until it was better. He was 
 hoarse and he was afraid he had lost his voice, 
 and he would keep trying it to see if it had 
 come back. But it sounded cracked and 
 harsh. And he lost patience and began to 
 vagabond about at night. Often he did not 
 go to bed until two or three in the morning. 
 Now his voice is quite gone, and Maestro 
 Mecheri says it will not return." 
 
 " What is his name ? " asked Gertrude. 
 
 Giovanni gave his shade of a shrug again. 
 
 " I do not remember," he said. " I do not 
 know him. Maestro Mecheri told me of him 
 as a warning." 
 
 " There is a boy who comes and sings be 
 fore the hotel at night sometimes/ said the 
 lady in black. " We have noticed that his 
 voice has been spoiled. Perhaps that is he." 
 
 "Yes, that is possible," said Giovanni. 
 " The fores ^eri used to like to hear him, and 
 he went to all the hotels. They say there 
 was a rich Signora at one hotel who was a 
 
1 Iwli 
 
 
 I !w W ll l !: 
 
 i ir i i- 
 
 I do, continued Giovanni." 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 177 
 
 singer herself, and had made her fortune, and 
 she asked him into her salon one night and 
 made him sing for her. And he pleased her 
 so much that she told him he would have a 
 wonderful life, and she gave him twenty-five 
 francs for himself. They say," with an in 
 nocently amused air, " that she also kissed 
 him." 
 
 " And now his voice is quite gone ? " ex 
 claimed the lady in black. 
 
 " Maestro Mecheri says it is lost for ever. 
 He should not have had ideas and strained 
 it, and become such a vagabond." 
 
 He said it quite simply, and without any 
 air of ill-nature or severity. He seemed to be 
 merely stating facts. 
 
 " Where does he live ? I wish you knew 
 his name," the lady in black said. 
 
 " I think he lives somewhere in the Citta 
 Vecchia, but I do not know where. He is ill, 
 they say, and seldom goes out now. He 
 caught more cold. That was a bad thing for 
 him." 
 
 He went away soon afterwards. They had 
 learned where his mother lived, and that 
 Maestro Mecheri might be found and talked 
 to. They had not made any promises, or 
 suggested to him the possibility of their 
 having plans. He went off with a present of 
 
 N 
 
i;8 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 money in his pocket and smiles on his good- 
 looking face. A few minutes before he went, 
 as he was being shown a book of Tuscan 
 songs, he stood near a table which held one 
 of the pictures of the boy with the shadowy, 
 dark eyes. 
 
 " Is this the Signorine who sings Italian, 
 and is in America ? " he asked. 
 
 The lady in black took up another picture 
 and passed it to him. 
 
 " No," she said gently, " this is the one who 
 is in America." 
 
 This boy wore a lace-ruffled fancy dress, 
 and had a brilliantly happy young face 
 and laughing eyes. He leaned carelessly 
 against a carven cabinet, and looked out at 
 the beholders as if mere boyish life itself was 
 a delightful thing. Giovanni regarded him 
 with interest. It was evident to him that 
 this Signorine had been born to good fortune. 
 He was smiling himself as he laid it down. 
 
 "And this other/ he said, looking at the 
 first picture. " Does he also sing and is he 
 in America ?" 
 
 The boy in the picture his noble young 
 face turned slightly over his shoulder 
 seemed to meet the young peasant s eyes 
 with a soft, questioning glance. For the 
 moment it was as if they two looked at each 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 179 
 
 other almost as they might have done if 
 they had stood face to face. 
 
 " This one," said Giovanni, after a mo 
 ment s silence. " Is he the brother of the 
 other Signorine and where is he ? " 
 
 The girl with the grey eyes laid her hand 
 softly on his shoulder and spoke in a low 
 voice, even softer than her touch. 
 
 "This one," she said, "he died three 
 months ago." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 BRIGITTA climbed slowly up the steep 
 narrow streets of the Citta Vecchia the 
 streets which were so narrow as to be mere 
 passages between the old, old houses, pro 
 tected against the ruin of possible earth 
 quakes by the many archways thrown across 
 from wall to wall. It was these old house?, 
 and narrow, passage-like steep streets and 
 unexpected archways which gave the Citta 
 Vecchia which means simply the old city 
 its picturesqueness, and made the forestieri 
 climb up to see it so often and make sketches 
 of corners of it. It seemed a marvellous old 
 place to ^& forestieri ; and during the winter 
 season, when the hotels and villas were filled 
 with them, the peasants in the Old City be- 
 N 2 
 
1 80 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 came quite used to seeing groups of two or 
 three well-dressed people rambling about, 
 stopping to look up dark narrow stone stair 
 ways, or tiny iron-barred windows, or de 
 lighting themselves with a tumble-down wall 
 or a crumbling arch with green weeds sprout 
 ing out of its stones, high in the air. The 
 forestieri had these queer ways. They who 
 were rich, and lived in the grand hotels and 
 white villas, and wore wonderful garments, 
 would stop and watch a serious mule or 
 donkey laden with faggots or sacks of olive, 
 stumbling honestly up the hill-side streets, its 
 burden almost touching the walls on each 
 side, and they would look at it as if it were a 
 wonder, and as if the peasant-woman walking 
 beside it with her weather-worn, dark face, 
 framed with a red or yellow and green hand 
 kerchief tied over her black hair and under 
 her chin, as if she were a wonder too. And 
 sometimes they had been known to make 
 sketches of both as if there were not real 
 and grand pictures of Madonnas, and saints, 
 and angels in the fine picture galleries of the 
 great cities they were always rambling about 
 the world to visit. The peasants thought 
 that all this came about because they had 
 nothing to do, and were so idle that it made 
 them childish. 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. I Si 
 
 Brigitta who was Giovanni s mother 
 did not suspect for a moment that she was 
 picturesque. She did not know what pic 
 turesque meant. She knew the young men 
 had called her a pretty girl years ago, before 
 she had married Cola and had had children 
 and worked so hard. Then she had been 
 plump and had had laughing white teeth and 
 bright eyes, and there had been red on her 
 brown cheeks and a curl in her thick hair. 
 But now she considered herself an old woman, 
 though she was not one as the forestieri 
 counted years. She had worked in the house, 
 among the children and the beasts, she had 
 worked at the olive harvest and the grape 
 gathering, and had done all sorts of things 
 on the bit of land Cola rented in the cam- 
 pagna, and she had grown sinewy, and there 
 were lines on her face, and her black hair was 
 always more or less rough under the red or 
 yellow and green handkerchief tied over it. 
 She had never owned a bonnet. It would 
 have troubled her almost as much as a crown. 
 It was only \h^ forestieri the signoras who 
 wore little things made of silk and lace and 
 feathers and flowers. 
 
 And if she did not know that she was a 
 picturesque object herself, how much less did 
 she suspect that her donkey clambering by 
 
152 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 her side with a burden of fodder twice as 
 large as himself, was a sort of picture also. 
 He was a little shaggy, grey, patient-faced 
 beast, with soft furry long ears and long 
 black eyelashes, and his grave little face and 
 slow, toiling steps and big load were exactly 
 the things to put in a sketch of the narrow 
 steep streets with the ancient irregular houses 
 on either side of them, and the unexpected 
 arches sprung into straggling weed growth. 
 
 Brigitta had been to the campagna to help 
 Cola with the olive gathering. Giovanni, 
 though he was her eldest son and of working 
 age, had not been with them, because they 
 had found out that he could be more useful 
 to them if he were allowed to use his time 
 and strength in another way. His singing 
 was a good thing for them, and Maestro 
 Mecheri had said it was better that he should 
 not be put to labour that would tire him, 
 because it was not good for his voice. And 
 it did not matter so that he brought in help 
 one way or another, and upon the whole his 
 voice brought in much more than his labour 
 in the fields or vineyards would have done. 
 
 When she had climbed up the street to her 
 own door and unloaded the donkey and 
 driven him into his rough stable with the 
 iron barred windows, she gave him some 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 183 
 
 food and mounted the steep, dark stone stair 
 way which took her to the rooms where she 
 lived. 
 
 When she opened the door and entered 
 Ihe living room a wiry little elderly man 
 rose from a chair at her entrance. 
 
 "Good day, Brigitta," he said. " 1 have 
 been waiting for you." 
 
 It was Maestro Mecheri. 
 
 "Good day, Maestro," she answered. "I 
 have been at work at the olive gathering 
 with Cola. There is quite a good crop, but 
 the olives are small. There has not been 
 enough rain." 
 
 " That is true," answered Maestro Mecheri. 
 " We have needed rain for many weeks. I 
 have come to talk with you about Gio 
 vanni." 
 
 " Has anything gone wrong with him ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " No," said Maestro Mecheri, " he has good 
 luck, that ragazzo. He has a fine voice and 
 is strong and not troubled with ideas. And 
 he is good-looking. Often I believe money 
 is given as much to his merry eyes and white 
 teeth as to his singing. The forestieri like 
 his cheerful, handsome face. It is good luck 
 to be born looking like that. It has possibly 
 made his fortune for him." 
 
1 84 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 " In what way, Santa Maria ! " exclaimed 
 Brigitta, 
 
 "The forestieri have ways of their own," 
 said the Maestro. " There are two signoras 
 who have heard him sing and have taken a 
 fancy to him." 
 
 " Yes," Brigitta interrupted, " they sent 
 the concierge of their hotel to tell him to 
 come to their salon the other day. Giovanni 
 told me about it. It was all hung with old 
 brocades and pictures and fans such as one 
 sees in the shops for antiquities, and it was 
 filled with flowers, and there were many 
 pictures of a boy who is dead. His mother 
 was the one who sent the concierge to 
 Giovanni." 
 
 " Yes," said Maestro Mecheri, " that is it 
 and that is the point. That is why I say 
 they have ways of their own,, the furestieri. 
 Most people when a child dies if they are 
 rich bury him finely and have masses said 
 and hang black and white bead wreaths on 
 his tomb. They are very handsome, those 
 bead wreaths with * mio figlio } or mia madrc, 
 and other sentiments upon them. I have 
 even seen a little weeping willow made of 
 green beads bending over a headstone. 
 There are beautiful ornaments for the dead 
 made of beads. And this signora must be 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 185 
 
 rich, but she seems to have queer ideas ; she 
 did not explain them much to me, but I 
 gathered some of her fancies from some few- 
 things she said. It seems as if she were not 
 content that the boy s life should be ended 
 on earth and continue only in Paradise. She 
 has a strange wish that he should seem still 
 to live on earth and do things for other boys. 
 It is singular, but it is a good thing for 
 Giovanni. She came to see me about him." 
 
 Brigitta made a gesture of amazement. 
 Her eyes had been wide open before, now 
 her mouth opened. 
 
 " Yes," continued the Maestro, scratching 
 his grizzled, curling poll ; " she has a wish that 
 this boy of hers who is in Paradise should 
 help Giovanni. She did not say it exactly, 
 but I could see she had some fancy I 
 guessed it from her face, and from her voice 
 which trembled when she spoke. I am not a 
 dull fellow." 
 
 " What does she want to do ? " said 
 Brigitta. " It makes one feel strange such 
 an idea, I am not sure I like it. It might 
 bring ill-fortune like the evil eye to have 
 a person who is dead watching over one." 
 
 Maestro Mechcri shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "That is stupid," he said. " It is the idea 
 of a peasant." He knew that Brigitta was a 
 
1 86 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 peasant and quite a common and ordinary 
 one, and he \vho was a professional person 
 connected with the theatre did not shrink 
 from speaking his mind to her. " It is a 
 good thing for Giovanni, and her plans are 
 sensible in spite of her fancies. She says 
 that he has a voice which might bring him 
 fame and fortune, if he does not strain it by 
 singing too long, and if it is trained after 
 wards. She says that out of the fortune of 
 her son she will pay you a sum which will 
 make it possible for you and Cola to afford 
 to let him stop singing in the street, and he 
 shall go to school for a year or so, until his 
 voice is changed. I am to watch over him 
 and let her know when it will be safe to 
 begin training him. And I am in the mean 
 time to teach him all I know about music, 
 that it may help him when he can begin 
 practising." 
 
 "It is like a romance," said Brigitta staring. 
 " They have ideas t\\c fores fieri. It is well 
 they have money also." 
 
 Maestro Mecheri rubbed his chin and 
 looked at her with a superior scrutiny. It 
 was of course natural that a peasant woman 
 should not understand all this might mean. 
 
 " It may make a rich man of him," he said. 
 " If his voice is a very fine one as I think 
 
GKN INN1 INO rilE OTHER, i: ; " 
 
 it will lv he in. IN- makfi .1 ;; :ane. 
 
 1 \c ni.iy .sing in great dtfes perhaps tafbre 
 
 the kin;;- .uul the impresarios will pay him 
 immense sums every night it wai so with 
 
 Maiio, it is so with Patti. Thete Is HOI 
 
 so \ .1 i; .. e .ill tin* \\oiKl \\.in: 
 
 heai 
 
 itt.i l.m ; ;lu-vl .1 littU\ 
 
 4t (>iu vMiinot brltlg One 1 ! niiiul all .it Q 
 
 to thinkiiiiV th.it of oiu- s vn\ n rhilil," 
 
 Said, "It WoilUl lu 4 qiuxT nii ii ;h t.> tl 
 
 01 .nun singing before ti\^ king ! " 
 
 " If Iu* has :;oiul toituiu-." :..iul MteStfO 
 
 Mecherl, "that may all come in tune. The 
 
 lOWi \\ i-.lu-il nu- U> set > u aiul i. \Ia aiul 
 rxpl.iiii t. you aiul .r>k ymi if \ oil 
 willin;:. Shr i-; going a\\.iv |06n 
 
 \\ Ishea it amnged* 11 
 
 Brigitta lau : ;lu-l .1 litlK- vaguely a : ;.un. 
 
 " \ on mii-t come aiul see Cola,* 1 she --aiii. 
 
 14 You will not In- MU h imluviUvs as to 
 refuse?" saul tlu- Maestro, 
 "What oiu* has, one has,"she answered, 
 
 "ami one cannot In- SUW of \\liat In-, voice 
 will be when he i-; a young man. luit as she 
 will give somrthin:; to make* up to us for 
 lo-.ing his work now, 1 do n.t think Colt 
 tvill eaiv. Aiul M t*r me it r- all tlu- -.. 
 1,0 that one h.i suinething in one s h.uul." 
 
I S3 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 fl He could not sing more than a year," 
 said the Maestro. "You know how the 
 other boy s voice was lost and how he broke 
 down. His was magnificent," with another 
 rub at his grizzled curls, and a queer look 
 and tone of regret. " It was magnificent. 
 He would have sung before the king it 
 could not have been otherwise. It was a 
 great misfortune for him." 
 
 "You mean the son of Lisa ? " said Brigitta. 
 " He died last night, and she is almost mad, 
 they say." 
 
 Maestro Mecheri s look of regret took on 
 a sudden spasmodic deepening. 
 
 "Did he?" he said. " Poverino ! Povc- 
 rino ! " 
 
 " He has been dying for months," said 
 Brigitta, " but she would not believe it. He 
 coughed until he was worn to a skeleton." 
 
 " Ah ! " sighed Maestro Mecheri. " And 
 he might have sung before kings ! It was a 
 wonderful voice." 
 
 " But he is dead/ said Brigitta, unemotion 
 ally. "He died last night." 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE lady in black and her friend had 
 always been very fond of the Citta Vecchia. 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 189 
 
 They often climbed up the steep hillside 
 streets and visited the most unique corners 
 of it. They knew the narrowest passages, 
 the archways,, and dark little stone stair 
 ways ; the queer barred windows through 
 which one could look into the darkness and 
 sec a sheep or two, or a donkey, or a calf. 
 They knew the fountains where water was 
 drawn and the big one where the Avomen 
 stood atound the square stone basin and 
 washed their clothes talking and laughing 
 together. They knew the white church at 
 the top of the highest point, the Madonna 
 della Costa, where the peasants went to 
 Mass, and where there were so many queer 
 votive pictures small, violently coloured 
 and strangely designed things representing 
 the scene of some catastrophe from which 
 the victim had been rescued by some patron 
 saint. These were always interesting to 
 examine, as each one told its story. There 
 were pictures of storms at sea with fisher 
 boats apparently about to be engulfed, there 
 were pictures of runaway horses on the point 
 of dashing someone to pieces, there were 
 others of lightning striking, of sufferers 
 from dangerous illness, from casualties of all 
 kinds, and generally in some corner was 
 depicted the figure of the Saint or Madonna 
 
190 GIOVAKNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 descending from Paradise to interpose the 
 sacred protection between the victim and 
 impending death. Each one had been given 
 in commemoration and gratitude. They 
 were simple and primitive beyond descrip 
 tion, but the faith they showed was a touch 
 ing thing. 
 
 " Only," the girl s friend used to say to 
 her, " I should like to know who the artist is 
 who does them. They are so wonderful. 
 Perhaps there is an artist among the peasants 
 in the Citta Vecchia who does them all, and 
 is quite celebrated in his way." 
 
 During the last days the two friends spent 
 in San Remo they went two or three times 
 to the old city. 
 
 One beautiful afternoon they turned into 
 the climbing streets after leaving their fa 
 vourite flower shop, loaded with white nar 
 cissus and hyacinths, gold-yellow daffodils, 
 and scarlet and pink anemones. 
 
 They climbed to Brigitta s house and up 
 her dark little stone stairway to pay her a 
 visit. 
 
 Brigitta looked with open curiosity at the 
 Signora, whose mass of flowers looked so 
 bright against her black dress and pale face. 
 
 But there was nothing eccentric or curious 
 about her. She was very quiet and civil., and 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. IQI 
 
 had a low voice, and eyes which seemed to 
 have wept a great deal. 
 
 " She has wept for the boy who is in Para 
 dise," Brigitta thought. " Poverina ! but he is 
 better there, after all though it is true he 
 was a Signorinc." 
 
 The visit was not a long one. It was all 
 settled about Giovanni by this time. Cola 
 had given his consent, and the rest had been 
 easily arranged. The forestieri, it seemed, 
 did not hesi-tate about parting with their 
 money when they had decided to do so. 
 Giovanni had the chance to be a singer if 
 he chose to work and his voice turned out 
 well. 
 
 Among ether things the Signora had given 
 Brigitta a new dress and bright head hand 
 kerchief. The handkerchief was quite won 
 derful, and the dress was one that would last 
 for years. 
 
 " But when Giovanni is a great tenor," said 
 the Signora, smiling, "you will have more 
 dresses than one." 
 
 Brigitta smiled also, good-humouredly. 
 
 " That is a long time to look forward to/ 
 she said ; " who knows what will happen ? " 
 
 " I hope what happens will make you both 
 happy/ the Signora said 
 
 Giovanni," said Brigitta, " he will, of 
 
JQ2 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 course, be happy if he becomes well-to-do ; 
 and, for the matter of that, so shall I." 
 
 She was standing near the window when 
 she said this, and she looked out and shrugged 
 her shoulders pityingly. 
 
 " Ah ! there goes one who is not happy," 
 she said ; " it is that poor Lisa whose boy 
 died." 
 
 "Poor woman!" exclaimed the Signora, 
 drawing near ; " when did she lose him ? " 
 
 " Only two weeks ago," Brigitta answered. 
 " And it seems as if she would go after him. 
 He used to sing, too, like Giovanni, and he 
 lost his voice and caught cold and fell ill and 
 coughed himself to death. Before he was 
 too ill to leave his bed, he used to drag him 
 self to the terrace below the church and sit 
 on the low wall and stare down into the 
 olive vineyards and over the sea to the point 
 where one can see the other church the 
 Madonna della Guardia. He was very 
 wretched after his voice was gone. It seemed 
 as if he did not care to live. And now his 
 mother goes and leans on that wall every 
 afternoon when her work is done, and stares, 
 as he used to, at the church, and the olives 
 and the sea, only that she is always crying. 
 They say she is crying herself blind. Her 
 man died young; she had nothing buttheboy." 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 193 
 
 The girl with the grey eyes approached 
 her friend and put a light, loving hand on her 
 shoulders. 
 
 " It is very sad," she said. 
 
 " It is the story of the Other/ " the lady in 
 black answered. "I knew it must be sad ; I 
 felt it in my heart." 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 WHEN they found themselves out in the 
 street a little later, it was as if involuntarily 
 they turned towards the step which led to 
 the church of Madonna della Costa. Just 
 below the inclined paved steps leading to it 
 was the terrace with the low wall, against 
 which one could lean and look down the 
 almost precipitous hillside on to the olive 
 vineyards and the shallow stream. By turn 
 ing one s gaze to the right, one swept across 
 olives and villas and palms to the curve of 
 the shore, from which rose the hill where the 
 white little church of Madonna della Guardia 
 kept watch over the blue sea and those who 
 braved its dangers if there could ever lurk 
 dangers in the softly rippling lake-like calm. 
 
 It was a lovely point to look out from, this 
 low wall high up in the " old city," which was 
 
 O 
 
194- GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 so tiny that it was more like a precipitous, 
 huddled village than a town, though it was 
 always called the " Citta Vecchia." 
 
 As the friends drew near this point, they 
 saw the figure of a peasant woman leaning 
 with arms folded on the grassy stone ledge 
 before her. She was not only poorly, but 
 carelessly dressed. One imagined that she 
 had felt that it was of no consequence to her 
 self or to others if her bodice was ill-fastened, 
 her crinkly black hair unkempt, and her head 
 handkerchief ill-tied and awry. 
 
 She was staring straight before her at the 
 hills and the sea, and, sc mingly, scarcely 
 noticing the words of another woman who 
 stood by her with a bundle of fagots on her 
 head and her hand on her hip. 
 
 But the two forestieri heard what this 
 woman was saying, in a well-meaning but 
 commonplace tone. 
 
 " Patienza, Lisa, patienza ! " she said. "Of 
 what good is all this ? Sorrow is natural 
 enough when one s child dies, if one has not 
 so many that one can be spared because one 
 feels it will be better cared for. But to go 
 mad with grief and weep one s eyes away 
 when one has no one left to be eyes and 
 hands for one nothing but harm can come 
 of it. And it cannot be denied that he could 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 195 
 
 never have been happy again Pasquale ! 
 He had lost his voice for good, and could not 
 turn to anything else because he was always 
 mourning and wretched. It is not as if he 
 had kept his health and his voice as well, and 
 had been a healthy, handsome fellow like 
 Giovanni, whom they say some rich forestieri 
 have taken a fancy to and are going to make 
 into a grand singer." 
 
 Lisa turned her face upon the speaker. 
 Her tear-inflamed eyes seemed suddenly to 
 glare a little like a panther s. 
 
 " Hush ! " she said. " I know about that ; 
 you may be sure enough someone told me. 
 You may be sure that now is the time now 
 that he is dead dead like that that I 
 shall hear of some other some other " 
 
 She choked and dropped her head in her 
 hands. Her thin breast heaved and struggled 
 as if it were imprisoning some fierce swelling 
 thing which struggled to get out. 
 
 w Go," she said. " I wish you no ill but 
 carry your fagots home. You mean well, but 
 I want to stand here alone/ 
 
 The peasant woman stared at her a second 
 with a questioning face, and then she shrugged 
 her shoulders and went away, turning into the 
 sloping street near by. 
 
 The lady in black was breathing quickly. 
 O 2 
 
196 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 "It is the mother of the Other/" she 
 whispered to her friend. " I can understand. 
 She is like me only that my boy was not 
 tired of his life. Perhaps two women like us 
 will know what to say to each other." 
 
 The girl s grey eyes had tears in them. 
 
 " Yes," she said "yes, dear, but she will 
 not know that I can understand, too ; she 
 will only think that I am a Signorinaandone 
 of the forestieri, and she won t want me. I 
 will slip away." 
 
 It was a curious thing which happened 
 when the lady in black drew quietly near to 
 the peasant. Her consoler having left her, 
 the woman had covered her worn face 
 almost clutched it with her hands, and the 
 straining, swelling wild thing heaving her 
 breast had broken its bounds and was shaking 
 her with tearing sobs. 
 
 It was an awful thing. Only mothers sob 
 like that mothers who have looked into a 
 yawning grave where beautiful young hope 
 and exultant buoyancy and strength lie still 
 still and alone. 
 
 The other mother felt the wild thing 
 swelling in her own breast, and tearing it. 
 Great drops rushed up and swept down her 
 face, and she put out her hand and laid it on 
 the peasant s arm. 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 197 
 
 " I know you cannot help it," she said 
 brokenly. 
 
 They were the first simple words that came 
 to her. Somehow it seemed merely human 
 that there should be in that moment no 
 barrier between them. They were not 
 Signora and peasant -forestiere and Italian 
 women of the people, they were only two 
 mothers who had lost the blood of their 
 hearts. 
 
 The woman raised her poor face, wet, lined, 
 desperate. 
 
 Their eyes looked into each other. 
 
 The other mother s face was wet, too, and 
 suddenly she, too, leaned against the wall. 
 
 " Your boy died," she said. " Mine is dead, 
 too." 
 
 " Yes," said Lisa hoarsely and looking at 
 the pale face and black draperies. " I have 
 heard them speak of you. But you you 
 are a rich Signora and he, your son, he 
 wanted nothing." And she bowed her head 
 again. 
 
 " He he wanted life" whispered the lady 
 in black ; " and I could not give it him ! " 
 She pressed her hand on her breast. " I could 
 not buy it, or beg it, or search for it on my 
 hands and knees, or work for it like a servant, 
 as if I had never been a lady at all. No one 
 
198 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 could sell it or give it to me no one in all 
 the great, powerful, wonderful world where 
 the wise men know so much. I had always 
 given him everything else ; he thought I 
 could give him anything but I could not 
 give him that ; and he was so young, and it 
 seemed so beautiful to him, and he wanted 
 it ! " And she bowed her head too. 
 
 " Pasquale " said Lisa " my boy did not 
 want it." 
 
 "Try try to be comforted that he was 
 not forced to bear it," said the other. " But, 
 ah ! poor woman ! God help you, if he did 
 not want it." 
 
 "He wanted it once/ cried the peasant; "he 
 loved it three years ago, two years ago. It 
 was all the voice the beautiful silver voice that 
 broke his heart that was false and deserted 
 him, that tricked him and left him to die." 
 
 " Poor boy ! Poor boy ! " wept the woman 
 near her. And the peasant knew that the 
 tears were for the young dead she had never 
 seen. 
 
 " He always sang/ she went on, "when he 
 was a tiny thing with round cheeks and big, 
 black eyes so pretty that the fores fieri stared 
 at him and gave him soldi for his good looks 
 and his long eye-lashes even then he could 
 sing. He used to try and make sounds like 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 109 
 
 the birds, and if he heard an air in the street 
 he would try to repeat it, and then clasp his 
 little hands and laugh for pleasure when he 
 had made it right. And I was proud of it, 
 and boasted of him to the neighbours, and 
 made him sing for them. He was like a little 
 bird ; he put his head on one side like one 
 when he sat on my knee and sang looking 
 from under his lashes. They were as long as 
 that," measuring on her fingers, " and he had 
 curls like a Gesu Bambino, and soft cheeks 
 and strange eyes which seemed always to be 
 listening for music in the air, such as we could 
 not hear. And I was proud and let him sing. 
 I ought to have put my hand over his little 
 red mouth and killed it then then ; that voice 
 of silver and gold that was such a traitor and 
 a false friend." 
 
 " But you loved it and were happy," said 
 her hearer. " I know ; I have one boy left. 
 He sings." 
 
 " The Saints give to him that it may not 
 end in grief," said Lisa. " We were poor 
 peasants, poor enough, when he was old 
 enough to go into the streets ; it was a fine 
 thing for us that he could go and sing. He 
 was so handsome, and his voice was such a 
 wonder that \\\e forestieri liked him. They 
 gave him money and were always praising 
 
200 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 and petting him. There was no other boy 
 who lived like him. It was almost as if he 
 had been a real Signorine, though lie lived 
 here in the Citta Vecchia. If he did not sing 
 one day before a hotel or a villa, the next day 
 they would ask why he had not come. If 
 he had been only like other boys and cared 
 for nothing but the praise and the money it 
 would have been all right. But he was not 
 like that. He had strange feelings about his 
 music, and he was always finding something 
 to read about singing and great singers. I 
 loved him and he loved me, and I listened 
 with all my heart when he talked, but I did 
 not quite understand. He knew I did not, 
 but still he loved me, and always told his 
 thoughts to me. He loved his voice, it was 
 his treasure, and he wanted his life to be all 
 music. He was willing to work all day and 
 all night if he might sing well in the end. 
 And they told him \\iQforestieri, who knew 
 about voices, and Maestro Mecheri that he 
 might some day be a great singer a great 
 one!" 
 
 " He might have been/ said the lis 
 tener. "Yes, I know that is true. He 
 might have been and " She hesitated 
 a moment with parted lips ; a strange 
 light of thought seemed to leap into her 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 201 
 
 eyes, and rest there, though she did not 
 finish. 
 
 " He used to come here and lean against 
 the wall at sunset," said Lisa. " He would 
 look out over the sea to the Madonna della 
 Guardia, and it would seem as if he were in a 
 dream. When he came in to eat it would 
 seem as if he had just wakened with a smile 
 on his lips. It was then that he was seeing 
 his visions of what he would do when he was 
 a young man, and the whole world loved him 
 because his voice was of silver and gold." 
 
 Her voice fell, and she remained silent a 
 moment, resting her forehead on her hand. 
 Then she began again, 
 
 " I do not know how it first changed," she 
 said ; " Maestro Mecheri thought that he was 
 not really strong, though he looked so, and 
 he caught cold, and sang when he should not. 
 One day he came in to me with a strange 
 look on his face. He told me that he had 
 tried to sing, but he could not. His voice 
 had sounded as if it were the voice of 
 another. He tried to be patient at first. He 
 waited two days, and then went out again. 
 But he could not make the right sounds. 
 It was like that many times then he tried 
 to rest, and still it seemed to do no good. 
 Maestro Mecheri said he did not wait long 
 
202 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 enough, and perhaps his voice had already 
 begun to change, or perhaps it was that 
 his malady had even then struck him. One 
 night when I came in I found him sitting 
 alone. His face was white, and his forehead 
 was damp with sweat. He was hoarse when 
 he spoke. He said, * I cannot sing, I can 
 not sing ; I have lost it. I tried to console 
 htm, but it seemed as if he could not hear 
 what I was saying. He had been to one of 
 the villas where the people had always 
 praised him, and they had not opened the 
 window, or sent him money. And as he 
 had been going away wondering and heavy- 
 hearted, a servant had seen him, and said, 
 Was it you singing ? No one knew it was 
 you. They thought it was a stranger. It 
 did not sound like your voice. What is 
 wrong ? 
 
 " After that it seemed as if he grew despe 
 rate. In spite of his hoarseness he would try 
 to sing alone. He would shut himself up, and 
 exercise his voice. He said that if he worked 
 steadily it might come back. He began to 
 cough, and became thin, and he could not 
 sleep at night, but he could not give up. 
 
 Once, when he was exercising, I heard 
 suddenly that he had stopped, and I went 
 quietly and stole a glance at him through 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 2O3 
 
 the door. He was lying upon the floor 
 weeping with heavy sobs. I dared not speak 
 to him. He was my son, and he loved me, 
 but there were times when I felt he was far 
 beyond me in some strange way, and I was 
 only a peasant woman. But he loved me, 
 he loved me. My heart was so warm to him, 
 and so faithful. Scusi Signora, I am telling 
 you a long story." 
 
 " Tell it to me, tell it," said the lady in 
 black ; " it will ease your heart to speak. 
 Sometimes one wishes to be quite silent, one 
 cannot speak at all, but sometimes one must 
 go over it all again, one cannot help it. 
 Tell it all to me." 
 
 " Yes, it is so," said the peasant woman ; 
 " but there are so few one can speak to." 
 
 "We have both felt the same suffering," 
 said the lady in black. 
 
 "To be a mother who loves must be the 
 same always," said Lisa. " I have knelt be 
 fore the Madonna in the church there, feeling 
 that she must understand. She was like us 
 after all. She had held her son in her arms, 
 and she stood by and saw him die, and could 
 not help him." And she made the sign of 
 the cross. 
 
 " I used to ask myself if she looked on, 
 she went on "if she looked down at the 
 
204 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 Citta Vecchia in those months that came 
 after. Surely the Calvary was not more 
 terrible. They were so long, so long." 
 
 "And so short/ the other mother said, 
 in a voice like a cry. And she caught the 
 peasant woman s hand. " I know it all, they 
 were so long, and so short." 
 
 " Yes. Yes. Did yours die so ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Mine wasted and coughed, and his eyes 
 grew large and hollow, and his hair was 
 damp, and he was weaker every day ; but 
 always he would try, with his poor voice, 
 to sing, and always it grew hoarser and 
 feebler, and more cracked his gold and silver 
 voice. And when he heard it he would let 
 his damp forehead fall on his hand, and large 
 tears would roll down his cheeks. He ceased 
 early to try and sing before the villas and 
 hotels in the daylight. He used to steal out 
 at night and try in the darkness. He did 
 not wish to be seen ; but no one gave him 
 anything ; they had all forgotten him, and 
 once a concierge came out to tell him he 
 must go away, that he disturbed the guests. 
 In that hotel they had once made him their 
 favourite. It does not take long for the 
 happy rich ones to quite forget. It was 
 terrible to him to find out that he had been 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 205 
 
 so quickly forgotten. That night, after the 
 concierge came out to tell him to go away, he 
 did not sleep at all. His pillow was wet in 
 the morning, and it was not only with the 
 dampness of his hair, but with tears. His 
 eyes had great shadows under them, and he 
 was exhausted. Some nights he used to 
 wander about until it was long past midnight. 
 Those who did not know him said he had 
 got into a bad way, and was a vagabond. 
 But I knew that it was not so. 
 
 " One night it was the last time he tried 
 to sing at all he came in with something in 
 his hand, and sat and stared at it. Mother 
 of God ! he looked like a ghost a lost spirit 
 a condemned soul ! 
 
 " There are some people at the Grand 
 Hotel des Anglais, he said, they are 
 forestieri) two Signoras. Once or twice they 
 have thrown out money to me. They are 
 generous. I suppose they are rich. I know 
 why they throw it to me, it is because they 
 pity me they pity me. They hear how 
 bad it is, how broken and hideous. They 
 know I have lost it, and they are sorry. To 
 night they threw me this from their balcony. 
 And he held out his wasted, trembling hand 
 with a piece of silver in it. Once they 
 would have given it from pleasure. That 
 
206 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 is over. It is gone ! I shall never sing 
 again ! 
 
 " He kept the piece of silver, because he 
 said it reminded him of the time when such 
 things fell to him from so many balconies 
 and windows, and this was the last he should 
 ever have." 
 
 She sobbed a little, and rubbed her eyes 
 with the end of her handkerchief. 
 
 " After that he only lay in his bed. He 
 coughed and burned with fever, but I would 
 not believe that it was all over. He had 
 been such a beauty, and had sung so well 
 a year before, and he was so young only a 
 boy Mother of God ! only fifteen years old ! 
 
 "One night it is not a month ago he 
 slept restlessly, and at last he began to sing 
 in a weak, harsh voice, panting and broken ; 
 it was Addio bella Napoli he began, but the 
 strange broken sound wakened him. He 
 started and stared at me as if it were I whose 
 voice he had heard. 
 
 " * Who sang ? he whispered ; who sang ? 
 But a moment later he lifted his head from 
 the pillow a little, as if he were listening. It 
 was very strange ; he was as white as snow, 
 but he faintly smiled. His eyes did not see 
 me, he he was listening to something I 
 could not hear ! 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 2O? 
 
 " Ah ! that is better, he said softly, and 
 while he seemed to listen a breath of some 
 thing seemed to pass across his face, and 
 make it quite still, even the smile, and his 
 parted lips and open eyes. 
 
 " I held my own breath fora second. And 
 then his head sank on the pillow, and his 
 eyc3 closed." 
 
 Is there anyone who can say it was a 
 strange thing that the gloved hand, and the 
 bare rough one caught and clung to each 
 other, and that two women sobbed as they 
 leaned upon the Citta Vecchia s old gray 
 wall, and felt their hearts beat against its 
 stoniness ! 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MANY things happen during ten years, and 
 yet at the end of them it seems as though 
 somehow after all the time had flown very 
 quickly ! Young things have grown to man 
 hood fortunes and reputations have been 
 made, so many structures have been built up 
 stone by stone, or have fallen into dust and 
 been forgotten. People have grown happy or 
 sad, good or bad ; lives have begun, and lives 
 have ended. And yet one says, with sudden 
 
208 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 wonder, " Can it be ten years since then 
 really ten years ? " 
 
 During the ten years after the two mothers 
 stood by the wall on the steep of the Citta 
 Vecchia, many things had come to pass in 
 the queer old town which had always seemed 
 to be crumbling. 
 
 The mother who was one of t\\e Jorestieri 
 had been Lisa s friend before she had gone 
 away herself. The two had understood each 
 other. Lisa had been enabled to live and work 
 quietly in her old house without fear of suffer 
 ing from poverty. She had not wanted much, 
 and she had a friend who would not desert 
 her, though she was far away. Over the 
 mound where her boy lay, there was a slender 
 white cross, and upon the mound many a 
 flower grew. On the cross the peasant 
 woman used to hang garlands. On the 
 coast of the Mediterranean one may afford 
 flowers. 
 
 There were things the stranger mother had 
 said in their talks together, which Lisa had 
 taken to her heart and always remembered. 
 They were things of which she did not speak 
 much to others, but her thoughts dwelt on 
 them with strange comfort when her day s work 
 was over, and she used to go and lean upon 
 the low wall and look towards the hill where 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 209 
 
 the Madonna della Guardia watched over the 
 sapphire sea. 
 
 " In Paradise," she used to whisper to her 
 self. "They say that even those who have 
 not sung on earth have voices given to them. 
 What joy he would feel when it all came 
 back to him more golden arid clear than 
 ever ! How the saints would listen to him 
 and the Madonna herself. Surely she would 
 smile and keep him near her, because he had 
 suffered so on earth! And the signorine 
 who was a boy too, and had so many boy 
 friends on earth perhaps they surely must 
 have known each other because their mothers 
 have wept together. But he would sing 
 again he would sing again ! " 
 
 As the years went by there were many 
 interesting stories of Giovanni. It was told 
 in the Citta Vecchia that his voice had be 
 come a wonder, and that he was becoming 
 famous among the masters who trained voices, 
 and great things were prophesied of him. He 
 was strong and well grown and handsome as 
 a picture, it was said. He had sent a photo 
 graph of himself to Brigitta and Cola, and 
 they were by no means averse to showing it 
 to their acquaintances and repeating what 
 had been said by the people who knew what 
 voices were. 
 
 P 
 
210 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 And then came the time when he sang for 
 the first time in an opera. To the Citta 
 Vecchia it seemed like a fairy story. He had 
 sung in a great theatre filled with grand 
 people and lights and jewels little Giovanni 
 who had sung in the streets, and been more 
 than proud to bring home a few francs. 
 There had been wonderful scenery on the 
 stage places as fine as the king s palace, and 
 Giovanni had moved about acting and sing 
 ing as if he had been used to such things 
 always. And the people had been wild with 
 joy, and had applauded and risen in their 
 seats and thrown flowers at his feet, and called 
 aloud his name. 
 
 And from that time his life was more like a 
 fairy story every day. It was the great ex 
 citement of the Citta Vecchia, and Brigitta 
 and Cola were a hero and heroine. They 
 need not work at all, they were quite rich, at 
 least Giovanni, who was a good fellow after 
 all, in the midst of his grandeur, sent them 
 plenty of money for all their simple wants. 
 It was delightful to go and sit with them just 
 to hear their stones and discover how grand 
 the world was. Brigitta and Cola always had 
 plenty of visitors after Giovanni s career began. 
 
 And one evening those who dropped in to 
 chat and drink a little wine comfortably 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 211 
 
 found them wearing an air at once reverential 
 and triumphant. They had just had a new 
 letter from Giovanni, who was in Rome. 
 
 "To-night," Brigitta announced almost 
 breathlessly " this very night he is to sing 
 before the queen and the king ! They have 
 asked it and all the Court will be there to 
 hear." 
 
 It was true that on this night his audience 
 was a very magnificent one ; and that the 
 Royal box was filled. The queen and king 
 had come to hear this wonderful new young 
 singer, who had risen like a star, and who had 
 once been only a little street-singing peasant. 
 
 And because the queen and king had 
 come the Court had followed, and the house 
 was a splendid spectacle. There were beauti 
 ful women and rich dresses, glittering jewels 
 and flowers and soft colours and perfumes 
 everywhere. And everyone was talking of 
 the marvellous young tenor and the great 
 fame which had come to him, and the great 
 fortune which his future held. 
 
 In one of the boxes were a lady and a 
 young man who were evidently not Romans, 
 but their interest seemed almost greater than 
 that of the rest of the audience. It seemed an 
 interest a little different from the universal one. 
 P 2 
 
212 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 They were mother and son. The mother wore 
 soft black draperies and her blonde hair was 
 powdered with silver threads. The son was 
 a graceful, happy-eyed young fellow, with a 
 bright face and laughing eyes. He leaned 
 forward with a boyish smile of pleasure. 
 
 " What a house ! " he said. " What a 
 splendid house ! I am so glad ! How 
 lovely the queen looks to-night ! The king 
 seems in a cheerful mood too. They are 
 sure to be pleased, of course they must be ! 
 Everything goes well for him. What a 
 change for a little peasant ! I wish I had 
 seen him when he sang under your window, 
 and thought the francs you threw him were 
 a fortune ! It was just after 
 
 He stopped and put out his warm young 
 hand and touched his mother s. 
 
 " You were very sad then, dear," he said. 
 " Butout of that all Giovanni s good fortunehas 
 come. How strange it is ! If you had not 
 gone there, he might have sung in the streets 
 until he had spoiled his voice. Then he 
 would have had to live the life of a common 
 peasant. If you had not made his first step 
 for him, he might never have been able to 
 make the others." 
 
 His mother sat a little in the shadow of 
 the curtain and looked at the brilliantly 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 213 
 
 lighted stage. She smiled a soft, vague 
 smile. 
 
 " I wonder if he ever remembers that it 
 was not really I who did it, but a boy like 
 himself whom he never saw. It was Leo 
 who was his friend." 
 
 It was a splendid, wondrous night for the 
 young tenor. Whatsoever the triumphs that 
 his life might bring him in the future, there 
 would never be one which seemed quite so 
 joyous and magnificent as this hour, when 
 young and full of exultant spirit he poured 
 forth his song before the brilliant house, 
 while the king and queen applauded him 
 with delight the king and queen in the 
 marvellous storied capital of his own coun 
 try. 
 
 He was a beautiful young fellow of a dark- 
 eyed simple stalwart type. He had evi 
 dently lived joyously and without pain or 
 despondency. There were no shadows of 
 past young suffering in his well-outlined 
 happy face. His temperament had saved 
 him all that. His black hair curled crisp and 
 close over an unmarked forehead, his brown 
 eyes had the golden clearness one sees in the 
 eyes of some fine young animal, he had a 
 glowing olive skin, and a body which was 
 full of grace and strength. When he opened 
 
214 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 his fresh red lips the notes that poured forth 
 were golden sweet. 
 
 Those who listened found it a pleasure 
 merely to look at his joyous youth and 
 beauty. As the scenes of the opera suc 
 ceeded each other, their enthusiasm grew. 
 The queen leaned forward smiling, the ap 
 plause grew deafening. They called him out 
 again and again, and yet again, and he came 
 palpitating and bowing, and smiling with 
 joy. At the end of the last act the house 
 was throbbing with delight. Flowers rained 
 upon him, and were so heaped about his 
 feet that he could not remove them un 
 aided. 
 
 The lady in black had been holding on 
 her knee a large bunch of deep purple 
 violets. She bent forward and threw them 
 to him herself. He saw her, and, raising 
 them from the showers of more brilliant 
 colour, bowed low with a radiant look. 
 
 As they rose to leave their box, the young 
 fellow with the bright face was filled with 
 exultant excitement. 
 
 " How perfect it all has been ! " he said as 
 he folded his mother s wrap about her. " How 
 perfect ! He could not have had a greater 
 triumph. How happy he must be ! How 
 
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 21 5 
 
 glorious it is to think of it ! He must feel 
 that earth can scarcely hold more. 
 
 He stopped a moment and looked down at 
 his mother s face. Her eyes were wet, but 
 they were filled with a shining smile which 
 was strangely happy. 
 
 He took her hand and drew it through his 
 arm, pressing it lovingly against his side. 
 
 " You are thinking of something, dear," he 
 said, " what is it ? " 
 
 She met his young eyes, her own glowing 
 even more radiantly. 
 
 " Why," she said, " we understand each 
 other s thoughts so well that it will not seem 
 strangely fanciful to you. I am thinking of 
 * the Other. You know how sad it was that 
 story of his. And just now as I saw all the 
 flowers and the jewel-like lights, and heard 
 the roar of applause, and glanced at the king, 
 I thought all at once of the Other. Gio 
 vanni has gained all the earth can give, but 
 the Other has been all these years in the 
 golden city with the open gates of pearl ! 
 Who knows, who can know what his life has 
 been ? He has sung too, and the King has 
 heard him. Perhaps there was stillness 
 through the great fair wondrous spaces while 
 all listened. Of the two Giovanni and the 
 Other which of them to-night, which of 
 
216 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER. 
 
 them ? " And her voice fell into soft 
 silence. 
 
 And we who know only the life of earth 
 with all its incompleteness and longings un 
 fulfilled, whisper with bated breath, " Which 
 of them ? Ah ! which Giovanni, or the 
 Other ? " 
 
THE QUITE TRUE STORY OF 
 AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 
 
 WHEN it was young it was very happy. It 
 stood in the deep grass where daisies and 
 buttercups grew, and sleepy, kind-eyed cows 
 used to lie under its shade, and birds used to 
 build their nests in its branches, and bring up 
 their families and cuddle together, twittering 
 when it rained, and chirping and singing on 
 the twigs when the sun came out and made 
 the air sweet with a warm, fresh earthy odour, 
 and changed the rain-drops into jewels of all 
 colours. 
 
 It was a tree with an affectionate nature, 
 and it was very fond of the birds, and always 
 rustled a praise of their singing, and tried 
 to hold its leaves close together to make a 
 shelter for them when it rained. It was so 
 kind to everything that chirped in its 
 branches or rested under them that it was 
 a great favourite. There was always the 
 greatest haste in the spring, in nest-building 
 
2l8 STORY OF AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 
 
 time, among the young couples to secure the 
 best places in the Hawthorn Tree, and some 
 times quite hasty marriages had been 
 known to take place, so that the bride and 
 groom might be in good time and have the 
 choice of the nooks among the branches. 
 
 And how sweet it was when the pink and 
 white buds began to peep out and grow 
 bigger, and pinker, and whiter every day, 
 until, some fine morning, the whole tree was 
 a mass of fragrant blossom, and the air all 
 around it was perfumed. Then the little 
 children used to come to gather " the may," 
 as they called it, and roll about on the grass, 
 and dance and sing, and make wreaths for 
 their heads, and have little feasts in the 
 shade, and enjoy themselves until they were 
 tired, and had to go home and leave the 
 Hawthorn Tree to the birds twitter and the 
 soft warm night wind again. 
 
 When it grew older and sad times came 
 and all was changed, even to the very air 
 it breathed, the Hawthorn Tree used to 
 remember those days with an aching heart. 
 
 " Oh," it used to sigh with all its leaves, 
 " if I could only bloom again as I did then, 
 if I could only see the children dancing, and 
 see them with rosy faces and laughing eyes, 
 instead of always so pale and sad and dirty. 
 
STORY OF AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 219 
 
 Everything is dirty now, even the birds have 
 soot on their wings, and can t keep their nests 
 clean." 
 
 The change in its happy life had come 
 about so gradually that the Hawthorn Tree 
 could scarcely tell when first it had begun. 
 It had an idea, however, that the first signs 
 of it appeared on a spring morning when it 
 had noticed years and years ago that the 
 smoke of great London town seemed nearer. 
 It had been very busy blooming at the time, 
 and it was not quite sure that it was not 
 mistaken, but later in the year, when it had 
 more time to- notice, it began to be quite 
 certain that somehow the smoke had 
 advanced more into the country. This 
 puzzled it very much for a long time : it did 
 not know how long, but there came a time 
 when it heard a sort of explanation. It 
 heard it from two labourers who stopped to 
 sit down and rest under it on their way home 
 after their day s work. " Lunnon town/ said 
 one of them, wiping his brow with his rough 
 hand, " Lunnon Town, it do be growin 
 wonderful." 
 
 " So it be, man ; so it be," answered the 
 other. 
 
 "A-growiV and a-spreading over all the 
 land," said the first, " whether it be for good 
 
220 STORY OF AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 
 
 or bad there s no knowin , but Squire, I hear 
 him swearin t other day, and saying that 
 buildin was goin on so fast that a body could 
 taste smoke when a swallowed his tankard o 
 ale. An a said twouldn t be no time before 
 the streets would be all round about us, an 
 we d be Lunnon folks ourselves. An / says 
 he, " we ll have the crops brought to ruin an 
 the game drove off an everything murked up 
 wi black soot an cinders. " 
 
 This troubled the Hawthorn Tree very 
 much. It knew very little of London, 
 because it had been so bound down by 
 circumstances that it had not travelled, but 
 somehow the things it had heard of the great 
 city had given it a terror of it. It regarded 
 it as a great black monster doing only harm ; 
 starving poor people, making rich people 
 careless, and worldly, and selfish, harbouring 
 thieves, and poisoning the pure air with its 
 smoky breath. This was not altogether a 
 just opinion, but then the Hawthorn Tree 
 had lived a very quiet, limited life ; an 
 innocent, pure, country life, but not a life in 
 which it could learn how to look at all sides 
 of a subject. But it had this good quality, 
 however, the simple country Hawthorn Tree, 
 it was not obstinate, and set in its opinions ; 
 it was inexperienced and ignorant in some 
 
STORY OF AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 221 
 
 ways, but it was not so ignorant as to think 
 it knew everything. This is an ignorance 
 people do not recover from. 
 
 But it was very much . afraid of London, 
 and, indeed, time proved that it had reason 
 to be. And it passed through many sorrows. 
 The years passed by a great many years 
 and as each year passed, the dark cloud over 
 hanging London town crept nearer and 
 nearer, and the sky, which had always before 
 been fair and clear, began to look as if its 
 blue was dulled. More than this, the Haw 
 thorn Tree could see not only the dark pall 
 of smoke, but chimneys themselves which 
 poured it forth. Not only the chimneys of 
 houses, but tall chimneys of factories of all 
 kinds, from which volumes of blackness 
 rolled all day, and sometimes it seemed all 
 night. 
 
 Everything changed again and again as 
 the years went by ; the people changed the 
 fashions of the clothes they wore, their very 
 speech itself. Oh, the Hawthorn Tree saw 
 many sad, and many gay, and many interest 
 ing things. The Squire who had tasted the 
 smoke in his tankard of ale died, and his son 
 and heir got into debt and sold his estate, 
 and the trees were cut down and the estate 
 cut up into small pieces for building houses 
 
222 STORY OF AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 
 
 upon. And the smoke and chimneys kept 
 coming nearer and nearer, and the air was 
 not so fresh as it had been, and the people 
 who passed oftenest were not rosy country 
 farmers and their wives, but sometimes 
 richly-dressed people who dashed by in fine 
 carriages, and poorly-dressed ones who had 
 pale faces, and who often looked hungry and 
 tired. They were all going either to or from 
 great London,, and the Hawthorn Tree saw 
 them all, and often used to scatter its 
 blossoms over the pale ones, and sigh so with 
 all its leaves, that sometimes they would look 
 up and think the wind had risen. " Oh, 
 great London," the Hawthorn Tree was 
 whispering ; " oh, great, busy, sorrowful, 
 dark London, do not come nearer ; do not, 
 do not." But great London was too busy to 
 hear. There was too great a whirl in its 
 streets, the carts and carriages and waggons 
 were rumbling over its stones, people were 
 hurrying to and fro, there was so much noise 
 and pleasure, and business and sorrow, how 
 could the far-off, sorrowful rustle of one poor 
 Hawthorn Tree make itself heard ? 
 
 Then there came a cruel day for the Haw 
 thorn Tree. 
 
 It had noticed that not far from it in a 
 place it could quite easily see something was 
 
STORY OF AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 223 
 
 being built a large building. Men were at 
 work constantly. At length it began to grow 
 taller in one part than in another, much 
 taller. 
 
 One day at noon some men passed talking. 
 
 " The factory chimney s going on," said 
 one. 
 
 " Yes," said the other, " they expect to 
 finish it and set to work soon," and they went 
 their way. 
 
 " It is a chimney," said the Hawthorn 
 Tree, " a factory chimney ! " 
 
 It was just putting out its first blossoms, 
 and those that opened that day had no pink 
 on them at all, they were quite white. 
 
 By the time the tree was in full bloom the 
 factory chimney was finished, and then it 
 began work. How the black smoke rolled 
 out, and darkened the blue sky and touched 
 the edges of the fleecy, snow-white little 
 young clouds with dingy yellow. 
 
 And, alas ! it was not long before the Haw 
 thorn Tree felt something begin to fall lightly 
 on its blossoms, on its fresh snow-white and 
 pink innocent blossoms ; its lovely, tender, 
 fragrant blossoms. 
 
 " What is it ? " she cried trembling. " It is 
 black, and like very small flakes of black 
 snow." Then the cruel truth flashed upon it. 
 
224 STORY OF AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 
 
 " It is soot ! " it cried. 
 
 The Hawthorn Tree burst into tears. 
 
 " There is a great deal of dew this morning," 
 said someone who stood under the branches. 
 Once, many years before, one of the many 
 people from whom the tree gained its 
 information, one of those who rested in its 
 shade, had told to some children a story. It 
 was about a great black dragon which 
 swallowed up everything beautiful that came 
 in its way, and left behind it in its track only 
 desolation and dust and ashes. 
 
 How often the Hawthorn Tree thought of 
 the story in the years that came after the 
 soot first fell on its blossoms. Great London 
 was the dragon. How it crept onward, how 
 it swallowed up the green fields, the flowers, 
 the trees., the hedges with the birds nests in 
 them, the clean, country roads, the cottages 
 with thatched roofs and diamond-paved 
 windows, with tiny white curtains and flower 
 pots in them. How it swallowed up the 
 fresh, rosy children, and their games and 
 laughter. And in its track it left hundreds 
 of dingy houses, hundreds of tall chimneys, 
 hundreds of black, close, ugly streets, 
 thousands of pale, hungry-looking people, 
 some with worn-out faces, some with cun 
 ning, evil ones ; some simply dull and brutal. 
 
STORY OF AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 225 
 
 It was not the rich and gay part of London 
 which had crawled out to the Hawthorn Tree 
 and beyond it ; if it had been so, perhaps the 
 tree might not have feared and hated it so 
 and called it a dragon. It might then have 
 had quite a different idea, and have been 
 delighted with the bright luminous world it 
 would have seen, with the carriages and 
 horses, the beautiful women and pretty 
 children. But it was only the wretched, 
 squalid part the Hawthorn Tree saw. And 
 after a long time, when its heart was almost 
 broken, and it really thought things could 
 not be any worse, it found out that it lived in 
 what was called the East End, and in one of 
 the worst and most crowded parts of it. 
 
 It was a long time, too long for the Haw 
 thorn Tree to calculate the months and 
 years before the worst came to the worst, 
 and before all the air was thick with stifling 
 smoke and unhealthy odours, before the 
 miserable houses had huddled themselves 
 together into wretched, filthy streets, where 
 v/retched, filthy people starved, and quar 
 relled, and fought, and suffered, and died, 
 where little children cursed each other as 
 they played, in their rags, in the gutters, 
 where their drunken mothers staggered and 
 fell on the pavement or on the steps of the 
 
 Q 
 
226 STORY OF AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 
 
 noisome houses, and slept their horrible 
 besotted sleep. There were alley ways and 
 courts where decent people dared not go in 
 the broad day, and in the dreadful rooms 
 were packed together drunkards and thieves, 
 and sometimes murderers hiding from justice. 
 
 And, oh, the hunger and the pain and the 
 helplessness of the little ones born there ! 
 The Hawthorn Tree used to tremble at the 
 sight of them more than at the sight of the 
 great heavy, brutal men who lounged about 
 or crept stealthily round corners or bandied 
 coarse jokes with each other. They had such 
 pale, cunning, old little faces, such stunted 
 bodies, such unchildish ways when they 
 played or fought together. They were, most 
 of them, used to oaths and lies, and tricks, 
 and abuse ; the first they were not troubled 
 by, the last they were sharp at slipping out of 
 the way of. They were all alike in one thing, 
 however they all liked the Hawthorn Tree, 
 black and scanty-leaved and unlike itself as 
 its troubles had made it. 
 
 " Oh, if I cpuld only blossom for them ! " 
 it used to sigh. 
 
 But its blossoms had grown fewer and fewer 
 every spring from the first ; they could not 
 live in the poisoned air, and at last there had 
 come a spring when there had been none at 
 
STORY OF AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 22/ 
 
 all, and from that time the Hawthorn was a 
 hopelessly sorrowful tree, and if it had not 
 had a kind heart, it would have died itself. 
 But it struggled on in the midst of the dirt 
 and misery, though it could not put forth as 
 many leaves as it used to, and some of its 
 branches died. The truth was that it had 
 been led to make the struggle through a very 
 sad, simple story. 
 
 One morning there had staggered and 
 fallen under its poor shade a little shudder 
 ing, sobbing child, such a thin, white-faced 
 little thing-, with such a woeful look in its 
 
 o" 
 
 hungry-blue eyes, and with the marks of 
 cruel stripes and bruises showing through its 
 rags. It lay and sobbed and shivered until 
 the Hawthorn shivered too, and at last, be 
 cause it could do nothing else, dropped two 
 or three of its leaves upon its cheek. The 
 child moved, and, by chance, the little leaves 
 fell into its hand. Who knows but that all 
 the Hawthorn s wishing and sympathy had 
 given the poor little leaves some touch of the 
 magic charm of love ? 
 
 The child looked at them through her tears, 
 the rain had washed them to a fresher green 
 than usual, and to a child who had never seen 
 the country grass and flowers, they seemed so 
 pretty. After she had looked at them a few 
 Q 2 
 
228 STORY OF AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 
 
 minutes, she stopped crying, then she sat up 
 and began to scratch at the earth with her 
 fingers. The tree wondered if she were going 
 to make dirt pies, but she was not. She made 
 little squares of the soft dirt, and stuck the 
 stems of the leaves in them. Perhaps some- 
 
 , times she had wandered far enough into 
 the better part of the city to see a square or 
 garden, and she was trying to make some 
 thing like it. She busied herself over it, and 
 changed it again and again ; it was more to 
 her than a few tiny squares of dust and a few 
 leaves ; it was a new interest which actually 
 filled her mind so that she forgot her sorrows. 
 Did she know that the Hawthorn Tree was 
 watching her and whispering, " Poor child, 
 poor child ! " She felt some comfort about 
 her at all events, and suddenly she put her 
 arms round the trunk of the tree and rested 
 her sorrowful, thin cheek against it, and 
 looked up in the branches, and smiled as if at 
 
 v a friend. 
 
 " I mustn t die," said the Hawthorn Tree 
 tearfully to itself when at last she went away. 
 " It is quite plain that I mustn t die. The 
 the children need me, even though I can t 
 blossom." It would have been cut down 
 without doubt, but that it chanced to stand 
 on a small square of ground whose owners 
 
STORY OF AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 229 
 
 were rich and unbusiness-like enough to for 
 get that it belonged to them. At one time 
 there had been a sort of wooden fencing about 
 this piece of ground, but this had rotted and 
 broken and fallen away here and there, so 
 that there were gaps in it, and anyone who 
 wished could make his way in and out. 
 
 Because it was neglected and seemed to 
 belong to no one, as the neighbourhood be 
 came worse and worse, this enclosure became 
 gradually such a hideous prison for the poor 
 Hawthorn Tree as would in the end have 
 been its death if rescue had not come. But 
 I must tell you how this came about. In the 
 dreadful houses in the filthy narrow streets 
 and courts the people who were herded to 
 gether often had wretched refuse they wished 
 to throw away. A cat died, a dog, it was 
 easy to throw them over the rotten palings 
 into the enclosure ; a poor creature had fever 
 or small-pox^ and the mattress on which she 
 had died must be disposed of. So, one dark 
 night, it was bundled up and thrown into the 
 enclosure to lie there, rotted by the rain and 
 sun, and beaten into chaff by the wind, which 
 scattered its seeds of plague in the air. 
 Drunken men and women used to stagger 
 into the enclosure to wrangle and fight and 
 fall into stupid sleep. Thieves used to meet 
 
230 STORY OF AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 
 
 there to talk over their plans ; often desperate 
 brawls arose which ended in the flash of a 
 knife in the air or the thud of a bludgeon, 
 and awful oaths and cries which brought 
 policemen and people running together. 
 Once there was found among the loathsome 
 weeds the striped dress of a convict who had 
 escaped and changed his clothes here, so that 
 he might not be recognized. 
 
 The Hawthorn Tree remembered the night 
 this had happened. It had been a dark, 
 sultry night, and the first thing the tree 
 noticed was a stealthy, shuffling sound as if 
 someone were making his way through a gap 
 in the side of the board fencing which was 
 left standing ; then heavy limping feet had 
 dragged over the ground ; there had been the 
 sound of hoarse, panting breathing, which 
 had drawn nearer and nearer till the breather 
 stood beneath the Hawthorn Tree, and then, 
 with a stifled oath, he dropped, threw him 
 self on the earth, and leaned his back against 
 the trunk. 
 
 " It s dark enough ere," he said ; " an I 
 shan t have no bull s-eye lanterns a-flashing 
 in an disturbin of me. They re not fond of 
 this ere corner, them blokes. They leaves it 
 to itself; I shall ave a chance to change 
 these ere togs for them I nipped from that 
 
STORY OF AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 231 
 
 chap as ad fell asleep on his tramp. They 
 ain t swell, but they re less conspikyus than 
 them I m wearin ." 
 
 He changed his convict s dress for the poor 
 things he had stolen, and then limped pain 
 fully away. He had hurt his leg in making 
 his escape : it was said the next day when 
 his things were found that there were spots of 
 blood on some of them. 
 
 " Strange people sit under me in these 
 days," sighed the Hawthorn Tree, " arid some 
 how I can t help feeling sad for them all 
 even the bad ones. Perhaps they can t be 
 good ones when they live here, and never 
 breathe the fresh air or see anything blos 
 som." 
 
 But not long after this it found out that 
 there were some who lived there who were 
 good, but it was also true that they had 
 often breathed the fresh air and seen things 
 blossom. 
 
 Not far from the loathsome, barren plot of 
 ground where the Hawthorn Tree lived its 
 sad life there was a church. It was an old 
 church ; so old that in its records there were 
 the deaths of some of the first people who 
 had died in the Great Plague of London hun 
 dreds of years before. It was not a beautiful 
 church, and certainly not a fashionable one ; 
 
232 STORY OF AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 
 
 but it had a Rector, and his rectory was a 
 quaint house across the street, only a short 
 distance from the Hawthorn Tree. It might 
 not to be considered a very enviable thing to 
 be the Rector of this East-end parish, but the 
 Rector and his young wife were people with 
 strong and warm hearts, and found their 
 hands and time full of things to interest them 
 and keep them busy. It would be very easy 
 to write a whole book full of the things they 
 found to do and did, but I have time to tell 
 only one thing, how they became the friends 
 of the Hawthorn Tree and saved it from death 
 and despair. The tree had seen the Rector 
 often as he passed, and had noticed how differ 
 ent his keen, handsome face was from those 
 of the other people who went by. It was the 
 face of a gentleman, and though the Haw 
 thorn Tree did not know what a gentleman 
 was, it could see the differences in the faces. 
 
 " He must have breathed the pure air. He 
 must have seen things blossom," was the 
 vague thought in its tree heart. 
 
 There was always a crowd of rough brutal 
 men about the corner of the uncared-for piece 
 of ground. As there was nothing built upon 
 it and it seemed to belong to nobody, the 
 worst of the bad and idle ones got into the 
 habit of lounging, smoking, and quarrelling 
 
STORY OF AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 233 
 
 there, and even the policemen avoided it. 
 Drunken fellows staggered and squabbled, 
 shouted and maundered there, lads played 
 pitch and toss, thieves bandied jokes about 
 their spoils, and met to plot and talk their 
 plans over. The place was so given over to 
 roystering noise and evil that the more decent 
 people felt it unsafe to pass it. 
 
 " The place is an eyesore and a horror," the 
 Rector said, looking across the street from his 
 study window. " Every pestilential thing is 
 thrown into it to poison the air, that is bad 
 enough to begin with, and the plague that 
 gathers about that corner is the worst of all. 
 Something ought to be done." 
 
 He and his wife often said that something 
 ought to be done, but it seemed impossible to 
 say what could be done. The poisonous 
 odours of the rotting garbage which was 
 thrown over the remnants of tottering, decay 
 ing palings made their way across the street 
 to the rectory, and the riotous groups with 
 their oaths and foul words made it necessary 
 often to keep the windows closed. 
 
 " That poor old Hawthorn Tree," said the 
 Rector s wife one day, " what a horrible, deso 
 late life for it ! The wonder is that it did not 
 die long ago. And yet it struggles to put 
 out a few green leaves every year." 
 
234 STORY OF AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 
 
 " It is marvellous that any green thing can 
 live there," said the Rector. " One often 
 wonders at the courage of the poor bits of 
 plants that somehow manage to live and 
 feebly bloom in their rough pots or boxes in 
 the windows of some poor child or woman 
 living in one room up a wretched court." 
 
 One might also fancy that they had souls, 
 and longed to give their bit of brightness as a 
 sort of comfort to the miserable lives. 
 
 The Rector looked very thoughtful. He 
 knew those wretched courts and miserable 
 lives so well. 
 
 " If that unholy spot," he said, " could be 
 cleansed, fenced in, and given up to the poor 
 old Hawthorn Tree to die peaceably in or, 
 if the poor thing might live, and even have 
 some other humble green thing near it how 
 it would purify the whole street." 
 
 He ended the words almost with a start, as 
 if some sudden thought had struck him. 
 
 " That they should even see some simple 
 fresh thing putting forth its leaves and grow 
 ing in their midst would be a good thing," he 
 said, " if it could only be ah, if ! " 
 
 And this was the beginning of the Haw 
 thorn Tree s new life these few sentences 
 which awakened a bold thought in the Rec 
 tor s mind a thought which ripened into a 
 
STORY OF AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 235 
 
 bold plan. And the Rector was not a man 
 to make a plan, and then not work hard to 
 make it a reality. The Hawthorn Tree did not 
 know any of the details, and would not have 
 dared even to hope for what afterwards came 
 to pass ; it did not know how the Rector s 
 thought took shape, and how in a few days 
 he was hard at work developing- his plan, and 
 taking his first steps, how he went to see this 
 man and that, and talked to each of them in 
 deepest earnestness of his poor East-end 
 parish, and the suffering and hopelessness 
 and crime in it, of the people who starved and 
 stifled in their dreadful streets and alleys ; of 
 the little children who lived through their 
 helpless childhood without one innocent 
 childish pleasure or joy, who never saw grass 
 or flowers or trees growing, being so far from 
 the public parks, and so uncared for. And 
 then he told of the loathsome plot of ground 
 and the harmful rubbish thrown on it, and the 
 odours and infection poisoning the air. He 
 could tell them what a death-trap and ren 
 dezvous of criminals it had become, of the 
 foul-mouthed, riotous crowd always at the 
 corner, of its desertion by the police, who felt 
 they had nothing to do with it, and of the 
 murderous fights that went on at night under 
 cover of the broken palings. 
 
236 STORY OF AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 
 
 And then he told them of his plan, and 
 when they smiled at it as impossible, he was 
 not discouraged. There were some who did 
 not smile, but, being moved by his eloquence 
 and earnestness, listened with interest, and 
 asked questions and promised their help. 
 
 So a few months afterwards the Hawthorn 
 Tree saw a new thing happen. The Rector 
 came over with some workmen, and these 
 workmen began to clear away the heaps of 
 filth and rubbish from the piece of ground, 
 and after this had been done they roughly, 
 but strongly, repaired the tumble-down fence, 
 so that people could not pass through the 
 gaps. 
 
 " Can it be that someone has bought the 
 grounds ? " said the Hawthorn Tree. " No 
 one would want it except to build another 
 dreadful factory on, with another tall chimney 
 to pour forth smoke. They will cut me 
 down before they do anything else, but I do 
 not care," it added with a sigh, " I am stifling 
 to death, I cannot blossom, even my leaves 
 are going, and children cannot come to play 
 under me now." 
 
 But it seemed that no one was going to cut 
 it down at once whether the factory were 
 built or not, and it could not help noticing 
 that, at least, the air was better and the place 
 quieter. For some reason the policemen 
 
STORY OF AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 237 
 
 began to take notice of the corner and use 
 their authority when there was any loitering 
 about or tendency to disorder. The bad 
 characters who had used it as a rendezvous 
 found they must keep away; there was no 
 more foul language, no more pitch and toss 
 there were no more drunken fights. 
 
 " I am glad of that, whatever happens," 
 thought the Hawthorn Tree. 
 
 And at last but it was after the Rector 
 had worked very hard indeed in all sorts of 
 ways there came a day when more workmen 
 arrived and began to work in such a way as 
 made the Hawthorn Tree quite sure its last 
 hour had come. They began to dig in the hard 
 beaten earth, they dug deep into it with picks 
 and broke it with spades. 
 
 " But why don t they cut me down first ? " 
 said the poor sad tree ; " surely they have for 
 gotten me, and they will do it soon." 
 
 The second day the Rector came into the 
 ground and stood among them talking and 
 giving orders, and at last he turned round. 
 
 " Loosen the earth well around the roots of 
 that old tree ; I want to give it a chance to 
 live/ he said. " It has held its own bravely 
 enough, poor old thing. If it lives, it will be 
 the first tree in the garden." 
 
 " The garden," said the Hawthorn Tree ; 
 " a. garden ; oh ! what does he mean ? A 
 
238 STORY OF AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 
 
 chance to live ! I am not to be cut down ! 
 What are they going to do ? " 
 
 It found a reason for living, as it looked on 
 day after day and listened and learned about 
 the Rector s plan. 
 
 It took time to carry it out, a time long 
 enough to allow much work to be done, to 
 allow grr.ss to grow, young trees and flowers 
 to be planted and thrive, paths to be laid out, 
 and such things to be accomplished as the 
 Hawthorn Tree could not have believed could 
 ever be done. 
 
 For the Rector had worked until he had 
 managed with the aid of those who listened 
 without laughing at his plan, and indeed 
 with the aid of some who had smiled 
 at first, to get possession of the de 
 serted ground which had been a place so 
 awful and worse than desolate. And with 
 the aid of time and wonderful energy and 
 planning he had transformed it into a fresh, 
 sweet, blooming, restful place, where the 
 brown sparrows twittered, and all sorts of 
 green and bright things grew, and the little 
 children who had never seen such things 
 before came in to wander about and watch 
 them growing day by day, and wonder at and 
 delight in them. And the Rector called it 
 the People s Garden. 
 
STORY OF AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 239 
 
 It seemed almost incredible that such a 
 thing could be in such a place, and be so 
 fresh and bloom and thrive so well. But the 
 Rector knew what simple brave things would 
 grow even in East-end London air, and he 
 had such things planted. There were no rare 
 things, but they were all rare to the poor 
 people and the children who lived in the 
 alleys and courts. There was thick green 
 grass, where daisies and buttercups actually 
 grew ; there were pretty humble flowers, and 
 bushes, and small trees ; there was even a 
 little irregular pond made to look quite like 
 a sort of stream, and fresh water plants grew 
 in it, and there was a little fountain to cool 
 and clear the air. And on this the Rector 
 had one or two model ships and boats for 
 the sake of the children, who, seeing them, 
 would have something to examine and think 
 of. And there was a cool, deep grotto built 
 of pieces of rock, and out of its crevices ferns 
 and creeping plants sprang ; and there were 
 seats where people could rest in the shade 
 and freshness and be quiet. It was wonderful 
 how much was made of that one piece of 
 ground, and how almost impossible it seemed 
 when one was in it that this greenness, and 
 sweetness, and calm could be in the East-end 
 of London, and only a short distance from 
 
240 STORY OF AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 
 
 the most dreadful places. It sweetened and 
 purified all the air about it, and surely it 
 sweetened and purified the poor lives of those 
 who came to it. 
 
 " It is for the people," said the Rector, " for 
 the tired ones, and those who are ill, and for 
 the mothers and children." 
 
 And the poor old Hawthorn Tree s almost 
 broken heart was healed. 
 
 From the first the Rector had felt tenderly 
 towards it, and had tried to help it to live. 
 One of the first things done was to wash off 
 with the hose its poor trunk and branches 
 and leaves, to free them from the years of 
 smoke, and soot, and dust. The ground 
 about it was taken care of, and it was en 
 couraged in every way the Rector and the 
 gardener could think of. And when it felt 
 and saw the grass growing about its feet, and 
 leaves and buds putting forth, a thrill went 
 through its every fibre and it gained new 
 strength. And one day in the spring two 
 little country birds who had lost themselves 
 fluttered and twittered in one of its boughs. 
 
 " One might built a nest here if there were 
 more leaves," one of them chirped. " It s 
 very strange to find the country here. I think 
 it must be the country. We might be quite 
 safe." 
 
STORY OF AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 241 
 
 " Oh, I shall have more leaves," treml^.ed 
 the Hawthorn Tree, though they did not 
 understand it. " I am so happy that I feel 
 sure I shall have more leaves, and perhaps 
 oh, perhaps I shall even blossom." 
 
 And as the days became warmer it did 
 begin to have more leaves, more and more 
 every day, until the birds began to fly to it 
 whenever they wanted to twitter and rest and 
 preen their feathers, and the Rector passing 
 by one day with his wife, stood beneath it and 
 looked up with a pleased smile. 
 
 " See how the old Hawthorn Tree has 
 flourished," he said. " It has grown quite 
 young again. And there why, my dear 
 there are some blossoms ! How delighted 
 the children will be to see them. The little 
 lame boy told me the other day he had never 
 seen a tree with flowers on it." And he laid 
 his hand on its rough bark quite tenderly. 
 
 " I am so happy," whispered the Hawthorn 
 Tree. " The birds rest in my branches, and 
 the grass and all the flowers and leaves are 
 my friends ; even the little flags and water- 
 reeds in the little lake whisper and rustle kind 
 things to me. And the little children play 
 about me until their faces are quite bright. 
 Oh, I am glad I tried to live ; I am happy 
 again." 
 
 R 
 
242 STORY OF AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 
 
 The Rector did not hear, of course. He 
 thought a little breeze was passing and he 
 lifted his hat to enjoy its coolness. 
 
 " I think I shall put one of the seats under 
 it," he said ; " the children are so fond of it, 
 they are always clustering about it." 
 
 And he had the seats put there, and I have 
 seen them, for as I have written at the head 
 of the page, this is the Quite True Story of a 
 Hawthorn Tree; at least, I think it is the 
 story the Hawthorn Tree would tell if it could 
 speak. The Rector took me, not so long ago, 
 and showed me his beautiful, wonderful little 
 People s Garden, and, as we walked about the 
 paths and looked at the fresh, bravely-growing 
 flowers and bushes and plants, he told me how 
 horrible a place it had once been, and how he 
 had formed the plan to rescue and transform 
 it from a hideous plague-spot gathering all 
 evil and loathsome things about it, to a quiet 
 bright nook where the poor people could 
 come and find beautiful, simple nature even in 
 their dirty East-end. And he showed me the 
 shaded seats and the bath-chairs, of which he 
 had two or three, so that the ill and helpless 
 ones might be brought from their stifling 
 garrets and cellars and drawn to the dear 
 little garden and rest there, and breathe the 
 purer air and watch the leaves moved by the 
 
STORY OF AN OLD HAWTHORN TREE. 243 
 
 summer wind. And it was then he showed 
 me the Hawthorn Tree, and told me it had 
 been there since there had been fields about 
 it, and all through the long years when it was 
 surrounded only by heaps of filth and garbage. 
 And I could not help but love and pity it. 
 
 " Ah," I said, " how happy it must be, and 
 how surprised to find the grass growing 
 about it again ! It must feel as if it were once 
 more in the country. What sorrowful years 
 it must have lived through, and what a story 
 it could tell ! I wish it could tell it to me ! " 
 
 And as I did not know the tree language, 
 and it could not tell it to me, I tried to tell it 
 to myself, and so I have tried to tell it to 
 you. 
 
 THE END. 
 
, 
 
 LONDON t 
 PRINTED BY GILBERT AND KIVINGTON, LD., 
 
 ST. JOHN S HOUSE, CLEKKENWELL ROAD, E.C 
 
14 DAY USE 
 
 RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED 
 
 LOAN DEPT. 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or 
 
 on the date to which renewed. 
 Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. 
 
 -RESr 
 
 Wl/2*7b 
 
 7962 
 
 AUGl- 66-8A^ 
 
 LOAN DEPT, 
 
 FEB 1 3 1981