All clapped their hands. “Bravo!” said the teacher. “But that will do now. Come down.”
But Nelli wished to go to the top like the rest, and after a little exertion he succeeded in getting his elbows on the plank, then his knees, then his feet; at last he stood upright, panting and smiling, and gazed at us.
We began to clap again, and then he looked into the street. I turned in that direction, and through the plants which cover the iron railing of the garden I caught sight of his mother, passing along the sidewalk without daring to look. Nelli came down, and we all made much of him. He was excited and rosy, his eyes sparkled, and he no longer seemed like the same boy.
At the close of school, when his mother came to meet him, and inquired with some anxiety, as she embraced him, “Well, my poor son, how did it go? how did it go?” all his comrades replied, “He did well he—climbed like the rest of us—he's strong, you know—he's active—he does exactly like the others.”
And the joy of that woman was a sight to see. She tried to thank us, and could not; she shook hands with three or four, patted Garrone, and carried off her son; and we watched them for a while, walking fast, talking and gesticulating, both perfectly happy, as though no one were looking at them.
MY FATHER'S TEACHER
Tuesday, 11th.
What a fine trip I took yesterday with my father! This is the way it came about.
