Heart/The Boys' Parents
THE BOYS' PARENTS
This morning big Stardi, the father, came to wait for his son, fearing lest he should again meet Franti. But they say that Franti will not be seen again, because he will be put in the reform school.
There were a great many parents there this morning. Among the rest there was the retail wood-dealer, the father of Coretti, the perfect image of his son, slender, brisk, with his moustache brought to a point, and a ribbon of two colors in the button-hole of his jacket. I know nearly all the parents of the boys, through constantly seeing them there. There is one crooked grandmother, with her white cap, who comes four times a day, whether it rains or snows or storms, to bring and to get her little grandson of the upper primary; and she takes off his little cloak and puts it on for him, straightens his necktie, brushes off the dust, and takes care of the copy-books. It is evident that she has no other thought, that she sees nothing in the world more beautiful. The captain of artillery also comes frequently, the father of Robetti, the lad with the crutches, who saved a child from the omnibus. And as all his son's companions salute him in passing, he returns a salute to every one, and he never forgets any; he bends over all, and the poorer and more badly dressed they are, the more pleased he seems to be, and he thanks them.
At times, however, sad sights are to be seen. A gentleman who had not come for a month because one of his sons had died, and who had sent a maid-servant for the other, on coming yesterday and seeing the class, the comrades of his little dead boy, retired into a corner and burst into sobs, with both hands before his face. The principal took him by the arm and led him to his office.
There are fathers and mothers who know all their sons' companions by name. There are girls from the neighboring schoolhouse, and scholars in the gymnasium, who come to wait for their brothers. There is one old gentleman who was a colonel formerly, and who, when a boy drops a copy-book or a pen, picks it up for him. There are also to be seen well-dressed ladies, who discuss school matters with others who have kerchiefs on their heads, and baskets on their arms, and who say:—
“Oh! the problem has been a difficult one this time.” —“That grammar lesson will never come to an end!”
And when there is a sick boy in the class, they all know it; when he is better, they all rejoice. This morning there were eight or ten ladies, gentlemen and workingmen standing around Crossi's mother, the vegetable-vendor, making inquiries about a poor baby in my brother's class, who lives in her court, and who is in danger of his life. The school seems to make them all equals and friends.