mi; the one with the blue feather
collected all, and counted them in a loud voice:--

"Eight, ten, fifteen!" But more was needed. Then one larger than any of
them, who seemed to be an assistant mistress, made her appearance, and
gave half a lira; and all made much of her. Five soldi were still
lacking.

"The girls of the fourth class are coming; they will have it," said one
girl. The members of the fourth class came, and the soldi showered down.
All hurried forward eagerly; and it was beautiful to see that poor
chimney-sweep in the midst of all those many-colored dresses, of all
that whirl of feathers, ribbons, and curls. The thirty soldi were
already obtained, and more kept pouring in; and the very smallest who
had no money made their way among the big girls, and offered their
bunches of flowers, for the sake of giving something. All at once the
portress made her appearance, screaming:--

"The Signora Directress!" The girls made their escape in all directions,
like a flock of sparrows; and then the little chimney-sweep was visible,
alone, in the middle of the street, wiping his eyes in perfect content,
with his hands full of money, and the button-holes of his jacket, his
pockets, his hat, were full of flowers; and there were even flowers on
the ground at his feet.

THE DAY OF THE DEAD.

(_All-Souls-Day._)

November 2d.

This day is consecrated to the commemoration of the dead. Do you
know, Enrico, that all you boys should, on this day, devote a
thought to those who are dead? To those who have died for you,--for
boys and little children. How many have died, and how many are
dying continually! Have you ever reflected how many fathers have
worn out their lives in toil? how many mothers have descended to
the grave before their time, exhausted by the privations to which
they have condemned themselves for the sake of sustaining their
children? Do you know how many men have planted a knife in their
hearts in despair at beholding their children in misery? how many
women have drowned themselves or have died of sorrow, or have gone
mad, through having lost a child? Think of all these dead on this
day, Enrico. Think of how many schoolmistresses have died young,
have pined away through the fatigues of the school, through love of
the children, from whom they had not the heart to tear
themselves away; think of the doctors who have perished