he said. "I will see if I can make one."

So, though the nights were chilly, he took, day by day, some part of
the firewood that was allowed him, and with this he built a little
house around the plant.

The plant had a thousand pretty ways which he noticed. He saw how it
always bent a little toward the sun; he saw how the flowers folded
their petals before a storm.

He had never thought of such things before, and yet he had often seen
whole gardens of flowers in bloom.

One day, with soot and water he made some ink; he spread out his
hand-ker-chief for paper; he used a sharp-ened stick for a pen--and
all for what? He felt that he must write down the doings of his little
pet. He spent all his time with the plant.

"See my lord and my lady!" the jailer would say when he saw them.

As the summer passed by, Picciola grew more lovely every day. There
were no fewer than thirty blossoms on its stem.

But one sad morning it began to droop. Charney did not know what to
do. He gave it water, but still it drooped. The leaves were
with-er-ing. The stones of the prison yard would not let the plant
live.

Charney knew that there was but one way to save his treasure. Alas!
how could he hope that it might be done? The stones must be taken up
at once.

But this was a thing which the jailer dared not do. The rules of the
prison were strict, and no stone must be moved. Only the highest
officers in the land could have such a thing done.

Poor Charney could not sleep. Picciola must die. Already the flowers
had with-ered; the leaves would soon fall from the stem.

Then a new thought came to Charney. He would ask the great Napoleon,
the em-per-or himself, to save his plant.

It was a hard thing for Charney to do,--to ask a favor of the man whom
he hated, the man who had shut him up in this very prison. But for the
sake of Picciola he would do it.

He wrote his little story on his hand-ker-chief. Then he gave it into
the care of a young girl, who promised to carry it to Napoleon. Ah! if
the poor plant would only live a few days longer!

What a long journey that was for the young girl! What a long, dreary
waiting it was for Charney and Picciola!

But at last news came to the prison. The stones were to be taken up.
Picciola was saved!

The em-per-or's kind wife had heard the story of Charney's care for
the plant. She saw the handkerchief on which he had written of its
pretty ways.

"Surely," she said, "it can do us no goo