voice, “Welcome!” and the other kissed him impetuously on the cheeks. All clapped their hands. “Silence!” cried the master; “we don't clap hands in school!” But it was clear that he was pleased. And the Calabrian was pleased also. The master gave him a place, and went with him to the bench. Then he said again:—
“Bear well in mind what I have said to you. In order that this case might occur, that a Calabrian boy should be as though in his own house at Turin, and that a boy from Turin should be at home in Calabria, our country fought for fifty years, and thirty thousand Italians died. You must all respect and love each other; but any one of you who should give offense to this comrade, because he was not born in our province, would render himself unworthy of ever again raising his eyes from the earth when he passes the tricolored flag.”
Hardly was the Calabrian seated in his place, when his neighbors presented him with pens and a picture; and another boy, from the last bench, sent him a Swiss postage-stamp.
MY SCHOOLMATES
The boy who sent the postage-stamp to the Calabrian is the one I like best of all. His name is Garrone: he is the biggest boy in the class; he is about fourteen years old; his head is large, his shoulders broad; he is good, as one can see when he smiles; but it seems as though he always thought like a man. I already know
