was looking on would have been almost the same as reproving him for having soiled it. And this was not well, in the first place, because he did not do it intentionally, and in the next, because he did it with the clothes of his father, who had covered them with plaster while at work; and what comes from work is not dirt; it is dust, lime, varnish, whatever you like, but it is not dirt. Labor does not soil one. Never say of a laborer coming from his work, “He is filthy.” You should say, “He has on his clothes the signs, the traces, of his toil.” Remember this. And you must love the little mason, first, because he is your comrade; and next, because he is the son of a workingman.
Your Father.
A SNOWBALL
Friday, 16th.
And still it snows. A bad accident happened because of the snow, this morning when we came out of school. A crowd of boys had no sooner got into the Corso than they began to throw balls of wet snow which makes missiles as solid and heavy as stones. Many persons were passing along the sidewalks. A gentleman called out, “Stop that, you little rascals!”; and just then a sharp cry rose from another part of the street, and we saw an old man who had lost his hat and was staggering about, covering his face with his hands, and beside him a boy who was shouting, “Help! help!”
People instantly ran from all directions. He had been struck in the eye with a ball. All the boys dis-
