The whole city is in a tumult over the Carnival,which is nearing itsclose.In every square rise booths of mountebanks and jesters；and we have under our windows a circus-tent,in which a little Venetian company,with five horses,is giving a show.The circus is in the centre of the square；and in one corner there are three very large vans in which the mountebanks sleep and dress themselves,three small houses on wheels,with their tiny windows,and a chimney in each of them,which smokes continually；and between window and window the baby's swaddling-bands are stretched.There is one woman who nurses a child,prepares the food,and dances on the tightrope.

Poor people！The word mountebank is spoken as though it were an insult；but they earn their living honestly,nevertheless,by amusing all the world.And how they work！All day long they run back and forth between the circus-tent and the vans,in tights,in all this cold；they snatch a mouthful or two in haste,standing,between two performances.And some times,when they get their tent full,a wind arises,wrenches away the ropes and puts out the lights,and then goodbye to the show！They are obliged to return the money,and to work the entire night at repairing their booth.

There are two lads who work；and my father recognized the smallest one as he was going across the square.He is the son of the proprietor,the same one whom we saw perform tricks on horseback last year in a circus on the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele.And he has grown；he must be eight years old.He is a handsome boy,with a round and roguish face,and with so many black curls that they escape from his pointed cap.He is dressed up like a clown,decked out in a sort of sack,with sleeves of white,embroidered with black,and his slippers are of cloth.He is a merry little imp.He charms every one.He does everything.We see him early in the morning,wrapped in a shawl,carrying milk to his wooden house；then he goes to get the horses at the stable on the Via Bertola.He holds the tiny baby in his arms；he carries hoops,trestles,rails,ropes；he cleans the vans,lights the fire,and in his leisure moments he always hangs about his mother.My father is always watching him from the window,and does nothing but talk about him and his family,who have the air of nice people,and of being fond of their children.

One evening we went to the circus.It was cold,and there was hardly any one there；but the little clown did his best to keep the crowd merry.He made risky leaps：he caught hold of the horses'tails；he walked,all alone,with his legs in the air；he sang,always with a smile on his handsome,little,brown face.And his father,who had on a red vest and white trousers,with tall boots,and a whip in his hand；watched him.It was really pitiful.My father was sorry for him,and spoke of him on the following day to Dells the painter,who came to see us.These poor people were killing themselves with hard work,and their affairs were going so badly！The little boy pleased him so much！What could be done for them？The artist had an idea.

“Write a fine article for the Gazette，”he said，“you know how to write well.Tell the wonderful things which the little clown does,and I will draw his portrait for you.Everybody reads the Gazette,and people will flock to see the circus.”

They did so.My father wrote a good article,full of jests,which told all that we had seen from the window,and made people want to see and pet the little artist.And the painter sketched a little portrait which was graceful and a good likeness,and which was published on Saturday evening.And behold！At the Sunday performance a great crowd rushed to the circus.The announcement was made：Benefit Performance for the Little Clown,as he was styled in the Gazette.The circus was crammed；many of the spectators held the Gazette in their hands,and showed it to the little clown,who laughed and ran from one to another,perfectly delighted.The proprietor was delighted also.Just fancy！Not a single newspaper had ever done him such an honor,and the moneybox was filled.

My father sat beside me.Among the spectators we found persons we knew.Near the entrance for the horses stood the teacher of gymnastics-the one who has been with Garibaldi；and opposite us,in the second row,was the“little mason”，with his small,round face,seated beside his gigantic father；and no sooner did he catch sight of me than he made a hare's face at me.A little farther on I espied Garoffi,who was counting the spectators,and calculating on his fingers how much money the company had taken in.On one of the chairs in the first row,not far from us,there was also poor Robetti,the boy who saved the child from the omnibus,with his crutches between his knees,pressed close to the side of his father,the artillery captain,who kept one hand on his shoulder.

The performance began.The little clown did wonders on his horse,on the trapeze,on the tightrope；and every time that he jumped down,everyone clapped their hands,and many pulled his curls.Then several others,rope-dancers,jugglers,and riders,clad in tights,and sparkling with silver,went through their acts；but when the boy was not performing,the audience seemed to grow weary.At a certain point I saw the teacher of gymnastics,who held his post at the entrance for the horses,whisper in the ear of the proprietor of the circus,and the latter instantly glanced around,as though in search of someone.His glance rested on us.My father saw this,and understood that the teacher had revealed that he was the author of the article；and in order to escape being thanked,he hastily retreated,saying to me：“You may stay,Enrico；I will wait for you outside.”

After exchanging a few words with his father,the little clown went through still another trick：erect upon a galloping horse,he appeared in four characters-as a pilgrim,a sailor,a soldier,and an acrobat；and every time that he passed near me,he looked at me.When he dismounted,he began to make the tour of the circus,with his clown's cap in his hand,and every bodythrew soldi or sugar-plums into it.I had two soldi ready；but when he got in front of me,instead of offering his cap,he drew it back,gave me a look and passed on.I was ill at ease.Why had he offered me that slight？

The performance came to an end；the proprietor thanked the audience；and all the people rose also,and thronged to the doors.I was confused by the crowd,and was on the point of going out,when I felt a touch on my hand.I turned round.It was the little clown,with his tiny,brown face and his black curls,who was smiling at me.He had his hands full of sugar plums.Then I understood.

“Will you accept these sugar-plums from the little clown？”he said,in his dialect.

I nodded,and took three or four.

“Then，”he added，“please accept a kiss also.”

“Give me two，”I answered,and held up my face to him.He rubbed off his floury face with his hand,put his arm round my neck,and planted two kisses on my cheek,saying：“There！Take one of them to your father.”