wholly absorbed in manufacturing fans out of red paper, decorated with little figures from match-boxes, which he sells at two centesimi apiece.
But the bravest of all is Coretti; poor Coretti, who gets up at five o'clock, to help his father carry wood! At eleven, in school, he can no longer keep his eyes open, and his head droops on his breast. Nevertheless, he shakes himself, punches himself on the back of the neck, asks permission to go out and wash his face, and makes his neighbors shake and pinch him. But this morning he could not resist, -and fell into a heavy sleep. The teacher called him loudly: “Coretti” He did not hear. The teacher, irritated, repeated, “Coretti!” Then the son of the charcoal-man, who lives next to him at home, rose and said:—
“He worked from five until seven carrying wood.”
The teacher allowed him to sleep on, and continued with the lesson for half an hour. Then he went to Coretti's seat, and awakened him very, very gently, by blowing in his face. On seeing the master in front of him, he started back in alarm. But the master took his head in his hands, and said, as he stroked his hair:—
“I am not reproving you, my son. Your sleep is not at all that of laziness; it is the sleep of fatigue.”
MY FATHER
Surely, neither your comrade Coretti nor Garrone would ever have answered their fathers as you answered yours this afternoon. Enrico! How is it possible?
