Marco,the Genoese,is the last little hero but one whoseacquaintance we shall make this year；only one remains for the month of June.There are but two more monthly examinations,twenty-six days of lessons,six Thursdays,and five Sundays.

The air of the end of the year is already felt.The trees of the garden,leafy and in blossom,cast a fine shade on the gymnastic apparatus.The scholars are already dressed in summer clothes.And it is beautiful,at the close of school and the exit of the classes,to see how different everything is from what it was in the months that are past.The long locks which touched the shoulders have disappeared；all heads are closely shorn：bare legs and throats are to be seen；there are little straw hats of every shape,with ribbons that fall over the backs of the wearers；shirts and neckties are of every hue；all the little children wear something red or blue about them,a facing,a border,a tassel,a scrap of some vivid color tacked on somewhere by the mother.So that even the poorest may make a good figure；and many come to school without any hats,as though they had run away from home.Some wear the white gymnasium suit.There is one of schoolmistress Delcati's boys who is red from head to foot,like a boiledlobster.Several are dressed like sailors.

But the finest of all is the little mason,who has donned a big straw hat,which gives him the appearance of a half-candle with a shade over it；and it is ridiculous to see him make his hate's face beneath it.Coretti,too,has given up his catskin cap,and wears an old travelling-cap of gray silk.Votini has a sort of Scotch dress,all decorated；Crossi displays his bare breast；Precossi is lost inside of a blue blouse belonging to the blacksmith.

And Garoffi？Now that he has been obliged to discard the cloak beneath which he hid his wares,all his pockets are visible,bulging with all sorts of huckster's trifles,and the lists of his lotteries force themselves out.Now all his pockets allow their contents to be seen，—fans made of half a newspaper,knobs of canes,darts to fire at birds,herbs,and May bugs which creep out of his pockets and crawl slowly over the jackets.

Many of the little fellows carry bunches of flowers to the mistresses.The mistresses are dressed in summer garments also,of cheerful tints-all except the“little nun”，who is always in black；and the mistress with the red feather still has her red feather,and a knot of red ribbon at her neck,all tumbled with the little hands of her scholars,who always make her laugh and then run.

It is the season,too,of cherry-trees,of butterflies,of music in the streets,and of rambles in the country；many of the fourth grade run away to bathe in the Po；all have their hearts already set on the vacation；each day they issue forth from school,more gay and impatient than the day before.Only it pains me to see Garrone in mourning,and my poor mistress of the primary,who is thinner and whiter than ever,and who coughs with ever-increasing violence.She walks all bent over now,and greets me so sadly！