FROM THE APENNINES TO THE ANDES

EDMONDO DE AMICIS

[One of the best known of recent Italian writers is Edmondo de Amicis. He was born in 1846 at a town on the coast of Italy not far from Genoa. As a boy he longed to be a soldier, so his family sent him to a mili5 tary academy to study. When he had finished his work

at the academy he was made a lieutenant and served for some years in the Italian army. He was also the editor of a military paper in Florence and wrote many short stories of army life which made him famous. Then he 10 gave up his position in the army and began to write books.

He took several long sea voyages and described the things which he saw. The best known of all his books is one which he wrote for schoolboys and which he called “Cuore,” or "Heart." That means all the brave, kind, and noble acts 15 that spring from the heart.

The book tells what happened during one year of the life of an Italian schoolboy. It tells about the new schoolmaster; about the boy who had his foot crushed in saving the life of a little child; about the boy who was willing to be punished for 20 a thing he did not do, because he wanted to shield a comrade.

Once every month the master used to tell the boys a story. The story which follows is one of these.]

I

Many years ago a Genoese lad of thirteen, the son of a workingman, went from Genoa to South America, all alone, to seek his mother. She had gone two years before to Buenos Aires, the chief city of Argentina, thinking that she could soon earn enough to get her family out of debt and to make them comfortable. The poor mother had wept bitterly at parting from her children-one was eighteen, the other eleven-but she had set out full of courage and hope.

The voyage was pleasant. When she arrived in Buenos Aires she went to a Genoese cousin of hers who was a 10 shopkeeper in that city. The cousin found a place for her in an Argentine family, where she received good wages and was treated well. For a time she wrote to her family at home and received letters from them. It was arranged that the husband should send his letters to the cousin, 15 and the cousin should give them to the woman; then she would give her answer to the cousin, and the cousin would send it to the husband, in Genoa, adding a few lines himself. As she was earning eighty lire a month and spending nothing, she sent home a good sum of money, with 20 which her husband, who was a man of honor, was able to pay off some of their debts.

A year had passed, and since receiving a short letter in which she said she was not very well, they had heard nothing. They wrote twice to the cousin. The cousin did 25

not reply. They wrote to the Argentine family where the woman worked, but the letter never reached there, for they had misspelled the name.

The father and the two sons were in despair. What 5 was to be done? The father's first thought was to go himself to look for her. But who would support the two sons and pay the debts? The elder son could not go, because he had just begun to earn a little and he was also necessary to the family. In this state of affairs Marco, 10 the younger, said one evening very firmly, "I am going to America to look for Mother."

The father shook his head. It was a loving thought, but the thing was impossible. To make a journey to America, alone, at the age of thirteen! It would take a month! 15 But the boy insisted. He was patient and quiet about it and reasoned with the good sense of a man.

At last the captain of a steamer, who knew the family, heard Marco's plan and said he would get the boy a free third-class passage to Argentina.

20 So the father gave his consent. They filled a bag with

clothes for Marco, put a little money into his pocket, and gave him the address of the cousin. Then one fine evening in April they saw him on board the steamer.

"Marco, my boy," said his father, as he gave him a last 25 kiss, with tears in his eyes, "be brave. You have set out to do a noble deed, and God will help you."

Poor Marco! His heart was strong and he was prepared for the hardest trials, but when he saw his beautiful Genoa fade away in the distance and found himself alone on the open sea, on that great steamer crowded with emigrants, with all his fortune in that little bag, he felt almost 5 discouraged. Yet, after passing the Strait of Gibraltar, at the first sight of the Atlantic Ocean he grew more brave.

There were days of bad weather, when he stayed in the cabin, and when everything was rolling and crashing, and 10 he thought that his last hour had come. There were other days when the sea was calm and yellowish, when there was great heat, and the hours were long and tiresome.

He had become acquainted with a good old man, a Lombard, who was going to America to find his son. Marco 15 had told the old man his story, and the old man patted him on the head, saying, "Courage, my lad! You will find your mother well and happy." This helped him.

The twenty-seventh day after leaving Genoa they arrived at Buenos Aires. It was a beautiful, rosy May 20 morning when the steamer cast anchor in the great river Plata. Marco was beside himself with joy and impatience. His mother was only a few miles away! In a few hours he would see her! He felt in his pockets and found that half of his little treasure had been stolen from him, but 25 even this did not trouble him. What did it matter when

he was so near his mother? With his bag in his hand he went down, among many other Italians, into a tugboat which carried him nearer the shore, and then into a smaller boat which landed him on the wharf.

5 On reaching the entrance of the first street, he stopped a man who was passing by and asked the way to Los Artes street. The man, who happened to be an Italian workingman, said, pointing up the street, "Keep straight on, reading the names of all the streets on the corners. 10 You will find at last the one you want."

The boy thanked him and turned into the street which opened before him. It was a straight, narrow street. Low, white houses were on each side of it. There were people

and carriages and carts which made a great noise. At 15 every little distance, on the right and left, he saw cross

streets, which ran straight away as far as he could see. These were also bordered by low, white houses, and were filled with people and carts. The city seemed to have no end. It seemed that he might wander for days or weeks, 20 seeing other streets like these, and that all America must be covered with them.

At last he reached a cross street on which he read the name Los Artes. His cousin's shop was number 175. He hurried. He ran. He found the shop. He saw in the door 25 a woman with spectacles and gray hair.

"What do you want, boy?" she asked.