listen at the windows of the ground floor, which are screened by Venetian blinds. At one window I hear the voice of a school-mistress saying:—
“Ah, what a shape for a t! It won't do, my dear boy! What would your father say to it?”
At the next window there resounds the heavy voice of a master, saying:—
“I will buy fifty metres of cloth—at four lire and a half the metre—and sell it again—”
Further on there is the mistress with the red feather, who is reading aloud:—
“Then Pietro Micca, with the lighted train of powder—”
From the adjoining class-room comes the chirping of a thousand birds, which signifies that the master has stepped out for a moment. I proceed onward, and as I turn the corner, I hear a scholar weeping, and the voice of the mistress reproving and comforting him. From the lofty windows issue verses, names of great and good men, fragments of sentences which teach virtue, the love of country, and courage. Then ensue moments of silence, in which one would declare that the building is empty, and it does not seem possible that there should be seven hundred boys within. Noisy outbursts of hilarity are heard again, provoked by the jest of a master in a good humor. And the people who are passing halt, and glance with sympathy towards that pleasing school, which contains so much youth and so many hopes.
Then a sudden dull sound is heard, a clapping to of books and satchels, a shuffling of feet, a buzz which spreads from room to room, and from the lower to the higher, as at the sudden spread of a bit of good news: it is the beadle, who is making his rounds, announcing the dismissal of school. And at that sound a throng of
