ads who work; and my father
recognized the smallest one as he was traversing the square; and 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, with so many black curls that they escape from
his pointed cap. He is dressed up like a harlequin, 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
boarding-stable on the Via Bertola. He holds the tiny baby in his arms;
he transports 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; there was hardly any one
there; but the little harlequin exerted himself greatly to cheer those
few people: he executed precarious leaps; he caught hold of the horses'
tails; he walked with his legs in the air, all alone; he sang, always
with a smile constantly 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: but it was melancholy. My father took
pity on him, and spoke of him on the following day to Delis 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 painter had an idea.

"Write a fine article for the _Gazette_," he said: "you know how to
write well: relate the miraculous things which the little harlequin
does, and I will take his portrait for you. Everybody reads the
_Gazette_, and people will flock thither for once."

And thus they did. My father wrote a fine article, full of jests, which
told all that we had observed from the window, and inspired a desire to
see and caress 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 b