You are now beginning to understand the poetry of school,Enrico；but at present you only survey the school from within.It will seem much more beautiful and more poetic to you thirty years from now,when you go there to escort your own boys；and you will then survey it from the outside,as I do.While waiting for school to close,I wander about the silent street,near by,and listen at the windows of the ground floor,which are screened by Venetian blinds.At one window I hear the voice of a schoolmistress saying：“Ah,what a shape for a‘t'！It won't do,my dear boy！What would your father say to it？”

At the next window there resounds the heavy voice of a master,saying：“I will buy fifty metres of cloth-at four lire and a half the metre-and sell it again-”

Further on there is the mistress with the red feather,who is reading aloud：“Then Pietro Micca,with the lighted train of powder-”

From the adjoining classroom comes the chirping of a thousand birds,which signifies that the master has stepped out for a moment.I proceed onward,and as I turn the corner,I hear a scholar weeping,and the voice of the mistress reproving and comforting him.From the lofty windows issue verses,names of great and good men,fragments of sentences which teach virtue,the love of country,and courage.Then ensue moments of silence,in which one would declare that the building is empty,and it does not seem possible that there should be seven hundred boys within.Noisy outbursts of hilarity are heard again,provoked by the jest of a master in a good humor.And the people who are passing halt,and glance with sympathy towards that pleasing school,which contains so much youth and so many hopes.

Then a sudden dull sound is heard,a clapping of books and satchels,a shuffling of feet,a buzz which spreads from room to room,and from the lower to the higher,as at the sudden spread of a bit of good news：it is the beadle,who is making his rounds,announcing the dismissal of school.And at thatsound a throng of women,men,girls,and youths press closer around the door,waiting for their sons,brothers,or grandchildren；while from the doors of the classrooms little boys shoot forth into the big hall,as from a spout,seize their little capes and hats,creating a great confusion with them on the floor,and dancing all about,until the beadle chases them forth one after the other.At length they come forth,in long files,stamping their feet.And then from all the relatives comes a shower of questions.“Did you know your lesson？”“How much work did they give you？”“What have you to do for tomorrow？”“When does the monthly examination come？”

Then even the poor mothers who do not know how to read,open the copy-books,gaze at the problems,and ask particulars.“Only eight？”“Ten with commendation？”“Nine for the lesson？”

And they grow uneasy,and rejoice,and question the masters,and talk of the prospect for the examinations.How beautiful all this is,and how great its promise to the world！

Your father