Phil, the Fiddler by Jr. Horatio Alger (top 10 books of all time TXT) 📖

to see Filippo, but the pleasure would not have been mutual.

“Why do you want to see Filippo?” he demanded, in his customary harsh tone.

Giacomo heard and answered, though unconscious who spoke to him.

“I want to kiss him before I die,” he said.

“What makes you think you are going to die?” said the tyrant, struck by the boy’s appearance.

“I am so weak,” murmured Giacomo. “Stoop down, Filippo. I want to tell you something in your ear.”

Moved by curiosity rather than humanity, the padrone stooped over, and Giacomo whispered:

“When you go back to Italy, dear Filippo, go and tell my mother how I died. Tell her not to let my father sell my little brother to a padrone, or he may die far away, as I am dying. Promise me, Filippo.”

There was no answer. The padrone did indeed feel a slight emotion of pity, but it was, unhappily, transient. Giacomo did not observe that the question was not answered.

“Kiss me, Filippo,” said the dying boy.

One of the boys who stood nearby, with tears in his eyes, bent over and kissed him.

Giacomo smiled. He thought it was Filippo. With that smile on his face, he gave one quick gasp and died—a victim of the padrone’s tyranny and his father’s cupidity.(1)

(1) It is the testimony of an eminent Neapolitan physician (I quote from Signor Casali, editor of L’Eco d’Italia) that of one hundred Italian children who are sold by their parents into this white slavery, but twenty ever return home; thirty grow up and adopt various occupations abroad, and fifty succumb to maladies produced by privation and exposure.

Death came to Giacomo as a friend. No longer could he be forced out into the streets to suffer cold and fatigue, and at night inhuman treatment and abuse. His slavery was at an end.

We go back now to Phil. Though he and his friends had again gained a victory over Pietro and the padrone, he thought it would not be prudent to remain in Newark any longer. He knew the revengeful spirit of his tyrants, and dreaded the chance of again falling into their hands. He must, of course, be exposed to the risk of capture while plying his vocation in the public streets. Therefore he resisted the invitation of his warm-hearted protectors to make his home with them, and decided to wander farther away from New York.

The next day, therefore, he went to the railway station and bought a ticket for a place ten miles further on. This he decided would be far enough to be safe.

Getting out of the train, he found himself in a village of moderate size. Phil looked around him with interest. He had the fondness, natural to his age, for seeing new places. He soon came to a schoolhouse. It was only a quarter of nine, and some of the boys were playing outside. Phil leaned against a tree and looked on.

Though he was at an age when boys enjoy play better than work or study, he had no opportunity to join in their games.

One of the boys, observing him, came up and said frankly, “Do you want to play with us?”

“Yes,” said Phil, brightening up, “I should like to.”

“Come on, then.”

Phil looked at his fiddle and hesitated.

“Oh, I’ll take care of your fiddle for you. Here, this tree is hollow; just put it inside, and nobody will touch it.”

Phil needed no second invitation. Sure of the safety of his fiddle, which was all-important to him since it procured for him his livelihood, he joined in the game with zest. It was so simple that he easily understood it. His laugh was as loud and merry as any of the rest, and his face glowed with enjoyment.

It does not take long for boys to become acquainted. In the brief time before the teacher’s arrival, Phil became on good terms with the schoolboys, and the one who had first invited him to join them said: “Come into school with us. You shall sit in my seat.”

“Will he let me?” asked Phil, pointing to the teacher.

“To be sure he will. Come along.”

Phil took his fiddle from its hiding-place in the interior of the tree, and walked beside his companion into the schoolroom.

It was the first time he had ever been in a schoolroom before, and he looked about him with curiosity at the desks, and the maps hanging on the walls. The blackboards, too, he regarded with surprise, not understanding their use.

After the opening exercises were concluded, the teacher, whose attention had been directed to the newcomer, walked up to the desk where he was seated. Phil was a little alarmed, for, associating him with his recollections of the padrone, he did not know but that he would be punished for his temerity in entering without the teacher’s invitation.

But he was soon reassured by the pleasant tone in which he was addressed.

“What is your name, my young friend?”

“Filippo.”

“You are an Italian, I suppose.”

“Si, signore.”

“Does that mean ‘Yes, sir’?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Phil, remembering to speak English.

“Is that your violin?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where do you live?”

Phil hesitated.

“I am traveling,” he said at last.

“You are young to travel alone. How long have you been in this country?”

“A year.”

“And have you been traveling about all that time?”

“No, signore; I have lived in New York.”

“I suppose you have not gone to school?”

“No, signore.”

“Well, I am glad to see you here; I shall be glad to have you stay and listen to our exercises.”

The teacher walked back to his desk, and the lessons began. Phil listened with curiosity and attention. For the first time in his life he felt ashamed of his own ignorance, and wished he, too, might have a chance to learn, as the children around him were doing. But they had homes and parents to supply their wants, while he must work for his livelihood.

After a time, recess came. Then the boys gathered around, and asked Phil to play them a tune.

“Will he let me?” asked the young fiddler, again referring to the teacher.