principal said, “It is all right,” wrote down his name, dismissed the father and son, and remained lost in thought.
“What a pity that you are going away!” repeated my father.
The head-master took up his resignation, tore it in two, and said, “I shall remain.”
THE SOLDIERS
Tuesday, 22d.
His son had been a volunteer in the army when he died: this is the reason why the principal always goes to the Corso to see the soldiers pass, when we come out of school. Yesterday a regiment of infantry was passing, and fifty boys began to dance around the band, singing and beating time with their rulers on their bags and satchels. We were standing in a group on the sidewalk, watching them: Garrone, squeezed into his clothes, which were too tight for him, was biting at a large piece of bread; Votini, the well-dressed boy, who always wears Florentine plush; Precossi, the son of the blacksmith, with his father's jacket; the Calabrian; Muratorino; Crossi, with his red head; Franti, with his bold face; and Robetti, the son of the artillery captain, the boy who saved the child from the omnibus, and who now walks on crutches. Franti burst into a derisive laugh, in the face of a soldier who was limping. But all at once he felt a man's hand on his shoulder: he turned round; it was the principal. “Take care,” said the master to him; “jeering at a soldier when he is in the ranks, when
