He was an ugly little boy, with a hat of no particular shape and a dirty face.  He had great black eyes, with ink-saucers under them, calamai, as we say, just as he has now.  Only the eyes are bigger now, and the circles deeper.  But he is still sufficiently ugly.  If it were not for his figure, which is pretty good, he could never have made a fortune with his voice.  De Pretis says he could, but I do not believe it.

Well, I made Gigi come in with Nino, and Mariuccia made them each a great slice of toasted bread and spread it with oil, and gave Gigi a glass of the Serveti wine, and little Nino had some with water.  And Mariuccia begged to have the child left with her till Gigi went back the next day; for she is fond of children and comes from Serveti herself.  And that is how Nino came to live with us.  That old woman has no principles of economy, and she likes children.

“What does a little creature like that eat?” said she.  “A bit of bread, a little soup—­macche!  You will never notice it, I tell you.  And the poor thing has been living on charity.  Just imagine whether you are not quite as able to feed him as Gigi is!” So she persuaded me.  But at first I did it to please her, for I told her our proverb, which says there can be nothing so untidy about a house as children and chickens.  He was such a dirty little boy, with only one shoe and a battered hat, and he was always singing at the top of his voice, and throwing things into the well in the cortile.

Mariuccia can read a little, though I never believed it until I found her one day teaching Nino his letters out of the Vite dei Santi.  That was probably the first time that her reading was ever of any use to her, and the last, for I think she knows the Lives of the Saints by heart, and she will certainly not venture to read a new book at her age.  However, Nino very soon learned to know as much as she, and she will always be able to say that she laid the foundation of his education.  He soon forgot to throw handfuls of mud into the well, and Mariuccia washed him, and I bought him a pair of shoes, and we made him look very decent.  After a time he did not even remember to pull the cat’s tail in the morning, so as to make her sing with him, as he said.  When Mariuccia went to church she would take him with her, and he seemed very fond of going, so that I asked him one day if he would like to be a priest when he grew up, and wear beautiful robes, and have pretty little boys to wait on him with censers in their hands.

“No,” said the little urchin, stoutly, “I won’t be a priest.”  He found in his pocket a roast chestnut Mariuccia had given him, and began to shell it.

“Why are you always so fond of going to church then?” I asked.

“If I were a big man,” quoth he, “but really big, I would sing in church, like Maestro De Pretis.”

“What would you sing, Nino?” said I, laughing.  He looked very grave, and got a piece of brown paper and folded it up.  Then he began to beat time on my knees and sang out boldly, Cornu ejus exaltabitur.