THE BOYS' PARENTS
Monday, 6th.
This morning big Stardi, the father, came to wait for his son, fearing lest he should again meet Franti. But they say that Franti will not be seen again, because he will be put in the reform school.
There were a great many parents there this morning. Among the rest there was the retail wood-dealer, the father of Coretti, the perfect image of his son, slender, brisk, with his moustache brought to a point, and a ribbon of two colors in the button-hole of his jacket. I know nearly all the parents of the boys, through constantly seeing them there. There is one crooked grandmother, with her white cap, who comes four times a day, whether it rains or snows or storms, to bring and to get her little grandson of the upper primary; and she takes off his little cloak and puts it on for him, straightens his necktie, brushes off the dust, and takes care of the copy-books. It is evident that she has no other thought, that she sees nothing in the world more beautiful. The captain of artillery also comes frequently, the father of Robetti, the lad with the crutches, who saved a child from the omnibus. And as all his son's companions salute him in passing, he returns a salute to every one, and he never forgets any; he bends over all, and the poorer and more badly dressed they are, the more pleased he seems to be, and he thanks them.
At times, however, sad sights are to be seen. A gentleman who had not come for a month because one
