that a cannon ball had struck him dead at the very be-gin-ning of the
fight. He listened to hear his answer.
"Speak louder, father!" he cried. "I cannot hear what you say."
Above the roaring of the flames, above the crashing of the falling
spars, above the booming of the guns, he fancied that his father's
voice came faintly to him through the scorching air.
"I am here, father! Speak once again!" he gasped.
But what is that?
A great flash of light fills the air; clouds of smoke shoot quickly
upward to the sky; and--
"Boom!"
Oh, what a ter-rif-ic sound! Louder than thunder, louder than the roar
of all the guns! The air quivers; the sea itself trembles; the sky is
black.
The blazing ship is seen no more.
There was powder in the hold!
* * * * *
A long time ago a lady, whose name was Mrs. Hemans, wrote a poem about
this brave boy Ca-sa-bi-an-ca. It is not a very well written poem, and
yet everybody has read it, and thousands of people have learned it by
heart. I doubt not but that some day you too will read it. It begins
in this way:--
"The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.
"Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm--
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud though childlike form."
ANTONIO CANOVA.
A good many years ago there lived in Italy a little boy whose name was
An-to´ni-o Ca-no´va. He lived with his grand-fa-ther, for his own
father was dead. His grand-fa-ther was a stone-cut-ter, and he was
very poor.
An-to-ni-o was a puny lad, and not strong enough to work. He did not
care to play with the other boys of the town. But he liked to go with
his grandfather to the stone-yard. While the old man was busy, cutting
and trimming the great blocks of stone, the lad would play among the
chips. Sometimes he would make a little statue of soft clay; sometimes
he would take hammer and chisel, and try to cut a statue from a piece
of rock. He showed so much skill that his grandfather was de-light-ed.
"The boy will be a sculp-tor some day," he said.
Then when they went home in the evening, the grand-moth-er would say,
"What have you been doing to-day, my little sculp-tor?"
And she would take him upon her lap and sing to him, or tell him
stories that filled his mind with pictures of wonderful and beautiful
things. And the next day, when he went back to the stone-yard, he
would try to make some of those pictures in stone or clay.
There lived in the same town a rich man who was called the Count.
Sometimes the Count would have a grand dinner, and his rich friends
from other towns would come to visit him. Then Antonio's grandfather
would go up to the Count's house to help with the work in the kitchen;
for he was a fine cook as well as a good stone-cut-ter.
It happened one day that Antonio went with his grandfather to the
Count's great house. Some people from the city were coming, and there
was to be a grand feast. The boy could not cook, and he was not old
enough to wait on the table; but he could wash the pans and kettles,
and as he was smart and quick, he could help in many other ways.
All went well until it was time to spread the table for dinner. Then
there was a crash in the dining room, and a man rushed into the
kitchen with some pieces of marble in his hands. He was pale, and
trembling with fright.
"What shall I do? What shall I do?" he cried. "I have broken the
statue that was to stand at the center of the table. I cannot make the
table look pretty without the statue. What will the Count say?"
And now all the other servants were in trouble. Was the dinner to be a
failure after all? For everything de-pend-ed on having the table
nicely arranged. The Count would be very angry.
"Ah, what shall we do?" they all asked.
Then little Antonio Ca-no-va left his pans and kettles, and went up to
the man who had caused the trouble.
"If you had another statue, could you arrange the table?" he asked.
"Cer-tain-ly," said the man; "that is, if the statue were of the right
length and height."
"Will you let me try to make one?" asked Anto-nio "Perhaps I can make
something that will do."
The man laughed.
"Non-sense!" he cried. "Who are you, that you talk of making statues
on an hour's notice?"
"I am Antonio Canova," said the lad.
"Let the boy try what he can do," said the servants, who knew him.
And so, since nothing else could be done, the man allowed him to try.
On the kitchen table there was a large square lump of yellow butter.
Two hundred pounds the lump weighed, and it had just come in, fresh
and clean, from the dairy on the mountain. With a kitchen knife in his
hand, Antonio began to cut and carve this butter. In a few minutes he
had molded it into the shape of a crouching lion; and all the servants
crowded around to see it.
"How beautiful!" they cried. "It is a great deal pret-ti-er than the
statue that was broken."
When it was finished, the man carried it to its place.
"The table will be hand-som-er by half than I ever hoped to make it,"
he said.
When the Count and his friends came in to dinner, the first thing they
saw was the yellow lion.
"What a beautiful work of art!" they cried. "None but a very great
artist could ever carve such a figure; and how odd that he should
choose to make it of butter!" And then they asked the Count to tell
them the name of the artist.
[Illustration: "The servants crowded around to see it."]
"Truly, my friends," he said, "this is as much of a surprise to me as
to you." And then he called to his head servant, and asked him where
he had found so wonderful a statue.
"It was carved only an hour ago by a little boy in the kitchen," said
the servant.
This made the Count's friends wonder still more; and the Count bade
the servant call the boy into the room.
"My lad," he said, "you have done a piece of work of which the
greatest artists would be proud. What is your name, and who is your
teacher?"
"My name is Antonio Canova," said the boy, "and I have had no teacher
but my grandfather the stonecutter."
By this time all the guests had crowded around Antonio. There were
famous artists among them, and they knew that the lad was a genius.
They could not say enough in praise of his work; and when at last they
sat down at the table, nothing would please them but that Antonio
should have a seat with them; and the dinner was made a feast in his
honor.
The very next day the Count sent for Antonio to come and live with
him. The best artists in the land were em-ployed to teach him the art
in which he had shown so much skill; but now, instead of carving
butter, he chis-eled marble. In a few years, Antonio Canova became
known as one of the greatest sculptors in the world.
PICCIOLA.
Many years ago there was a poor gentleman shut up in one of the great
prisons of France. His name was Char-ney, and he was very sad and
un-hap-py. He had been put into prison wrong-ful-ly, and it seemed to
him as though there was no one in the world who cared for him.
He could not read, for there were no books in the prison. He was not
allowed to have pens or paper, and so he could not write. The time
dragged slowly by. There was nothing that he could do to make the days
seem shorter. His only pastime was walking back and forth in the paved
prison yard. There was no work to be done, no one to talk with.
One fine morning in spring, Char-ney was taking his walk in the yard.
He was counting the paving stones, as he had done a thousand times
before. All at once he stopped. What had made that little mound of
earth between two of the stones?
He stooped down to see. A seed of some kind had fallen between the
stones. It had sprouted; and now a tiny green leaf was pushing its way
up out of the ground. Charney was about to crush it with his foot,
when he saw that there was a kind of soft coating over the leaf.
"Ah!" said he. "This coating is to keep it safe. I must not harm it."
And he went on with his walk.
The next day he almost stepped upon the plant before he thought of it.
He stooped to look at it. There were two leaves now, and the plant was
much stronger and greener than it was the day before. He staid by it a
long time, looking at all its parts.
Every morning after that, Charney went at once to his little plant. He
wanted to see if it had been chilled by the cold, or scorched by the
sun. He wanted to see how much it had grown.
One day as he was looking from his window, he saw the jailer go across
the yard. The man brushed so close to the little plant, that it seemed
as though he would crush it. Charney trembled from head to foot.
"O my Pic-cio-la!" he cried.
When the jailer came to bring his food, he begged the grim fellow to
spare his little plant. He expected that the man would laugh at him;
but al-though a jailer, he had a kind heart.
"Do you think that I would hurt your little plant?" he said. "No,
indeed! It would have been dead long ago, if I had not seen that you
thought so much of it."
"That is very good of you, indeed," said Char-ney. He felt half
ashamed at having thought the jailer unkind.
Every day he watched Pic-cio-la, as he had named the plant. Every day
it grew larger and more beautiful. But once it was almost broken by
the huge feet of the jailer's dog. Charney's heart sank within him.
"Picciola must have a house," he said. "I will see if I can make one."
So, though the nights were chilly, he took, day by day, some part of
the firewood that was allowed him, and with this he built a little
house around the plant.
The plant had a thousand pretty ways which he noticed. He saw how it
always bent a little toward the sun; he saw how the flowers folded
their petals before a storm.
He had never thought of such things before, and yet he had often seen
whole gardens of flowers in bloom.
One day, with soot and water he made some ink; he spread out his
hand-ker-chief for paper; he used a sharp-ened stick for a pen--and
all for what? He felt that he must write down the doings of his little
pet. He spent all his time with the plant.
"See my lord and my lady!" the jailer would say when he saw them.
As the summer passed by, Picciola grew more lovely every day. There
were no fewer than thirty blossoms on its stem.
But one sad morning it began to droop. Charney did not know what to
do. He gave it water, but still it drooped. The leaves were
with-er-ing. The stones of the prison yard would not let the plant
live.
Charney knew that there was but one way to save his treasure. Alas!
how could he hope that it might be done? The stones must be taken up
at once.
But this was a thing which the jailer dared not do. The rules of the
prison were strict, and no stone must be moved. Only the highest
officers in the land could have such a thing done.
Poor Charney could not sleep. Picciola must die. Already the flowers
had with-ered; the leaves would soon fall from the stem.
Then a new thought came to Charney. He would ask the great Napoleon,
the em-per-or himself, to save his plant.
It was a hard thing for Charney to do,--to ask a favor of the man whom
he hated, the man who had shut him up in this very prison. But for the
sake of Picciola he would do it.
He wrote his little story on his hand-ker-chief. Then he gave it into
the care of a young girl, who promised to carry it to Napoleon. Ah! if
the poor plant would only live a few days longer!
What a long journey that was for the young girl! What a long, dreary
waiting it was for Charney and Picciola!
But at last news came to the prison. The stones were to be taken up.
Picciola was saved!
The em-per-or's kind wife had heard the story of Charney's care for
the plant. She saw the handkerchief on which he had written of its
pretty ways.
"Surely," she said, "it can do us no good to keep such a man in
prison."
And so, at last, Charney was set free. Of course he was no longer sad
and un-lov-ing. He saw how God had cared for him and the little plant,
and how kind and true are the hearts of even rough men. And he
cher-ished Picciola as a dear, loved friend whom he could never
forget.
MIGNON.
Here is the story of Mignon as I remember having read it in a famous
old book.
A young man named Wil-helm was staying at an inn in the city. One day
as he was going up-stairs he met a little girl coming down. He would
have taken her for a boy, if it had not been for the long curls of
black hair wound about her head. As she ran by, he caught her in his
arms and asked her to whom she belonged. He felt sure that she must be
one of the rope-dan-cers who had just come to the inn. She gave him a
sharp, dark look, slipped out of his arms, and ran away without
speaking.
The next time he saw her, Wil-helm spoke to her again.
"Do not be afraid of me, little one," he said kindly. "What is your
name?"
"They call me Mignon," said the child.
"How old are you?" he asked.
"No one has counted," the child an-swered.
Wilhelm went on; but he could not help wondering about the child, and
thinking of her dark eyes and strange ways.
One day not long after that, there was a great outcry among the crowd
that was watching the rope-dan-cers. Wilhelm went down to find out
what was the matter. He saw that the master of the dancers was beating
little Mignon with a stick. He ran and held the man by the collar.
"Let the child alone!" he cried. "If you touch her again, one of us
shall never leave this spot."
The man tried to get loose; but Wilhelm held him fast. The child crept
away, and hid herself in the crowd.
"Pay me what her clothes cost," cried the ropedancer at last, "and you
may take her."
As soon as all was quiet, Wilhelm went to look for Mignon; for she now
belonged to him. But he could not find her, and it was not until the
ropedancers had left the town that she came to him.
"Where have you been?" asked Wilhelm in his kindest tones; but the
child did not speak.
"You are to live with me now, and you must be a good child," he said.
"I will try," said Mignon gently.
From that time she tried to do all that she could for Wilhelm and his
friends. She would let no one wait on him but herself. She was often
seen going to a basin of water to wash from her face the paint with
which the ropedancers had red-dened her cheeks: indeed, she nearly
rubbed off the skin in trying to wash away its fine brown tint, which
she thought was some deep dye.
Mignon grew more lovely every day. She never walked up and down the
stairs, but jumped. She would spring along by the railing, and before
you knew it, would be sitting quietly above on the landing.
To each one she would speak in a different way. To Wilhelm it was with
her arms crossed upon her breast. Often for a whole day she would not
say one word, and yet in waiting upon Wilhelm she never tired.
One night he came home very weary and sad. Mignon was waiting for him.
She carried the light before him up-stairs. She set the light down
upon the table, and in a little while she asked him if she might
dance.
"It might ease your heart a little," she said.
Wilhelm, to please her, told her that she might.
Then she brought a little carpet, and spread it upon the floor. At
each corner she placed a candle, and on the carpet she put a number of
eggs. She arranged the eggs in the form of certain figures. When this
was done, she called to a man who was waiting with a violin. She tied
a band about her eyes, and then the dancing began.
[Illustration: "And then the dancing began."]
How lightly, quickly, nimbly, wonderfully, she moved! She skipped so
fast among the eggs, she trod so closely beside them, that you would
have thought she must crush them all. But not one of them did she
touch. With all kinds of steps she passed among them. Not one of them
was moved from its place.
Wilhelm forgot all his cares. He watched every motion of the child. He
almost forgot who and where he was.
When the dance was ended, Mignon rolled the eggs together with her
foot into a little heap. Not one was left behind, not one was harmed.
Then she took the band from her eyes, and made a little bow.
Wilhelm thanked her for showing him a dance that was so wonderful and
pretty. He praised her, petted her, and hoped that she had not tired
herself too much.
When she had gone from the room, the man with the violin told Wilhelm
of the care she had taken to teach him the music of the dance. He told
how she had sung it to him over and over again. He told how she had
even wished to pay him with her own money for learning to play it for
her.
There was yet another way in which Mignon tried to please Wilhelm, and
make him forget his cares. She sang to him.
The song which he liked best was one whose words he had never heard
before. Its music, too, was strange to him, and yet it pleased him
very much. He asked her to speak the words over and over again. He
wrote them down; but the sweetness of the tune was more delightful
than the words. The song began in this way:--
"Do you know the land where citrons, lemons, grow,
And oranges under the green leaves glow?"
Once, when she had ended the song, she said again, "Do you know the
land?"
"It must be Italy," said Wilhelm. "Have you ever been there?"
The child did not answer.
* * * * *
End of Project Gutenberg's Fifty Famous Stories Retold, by James Baldwin