"Picciola must have a house," he said. "I will see if I can make one."
So, though the nights were chilly, he took, day by day, some part of
the firewood that was allowed him, and with this he built a little
house around the plant.
The plant had a thousand pretty ways which he noticed. He saw how it
always bent a little toward the sun; he saw how the flowers folded
their petals before a storm.
He had never thought of such things before, and yet he had often seen
whole gardens of flowers in bloom.
One day, with soot and water he made some ink; he spread out his
hand-ker-chief for paper; he used a sharp-ened stick for a pen--and
all for what? He felt that he must write down the doings of his little
pet. He spent all his time with the plant.
"See my lord and my lady!" the jailer would say when he saw them.
As the summer passed by, Picciola grew more lovely every day. There
were no fewer than thirty blossoms on its stem.
But one sad morning it began to droop. Charney did not know what to
do. He gave it water, but still it drooped. The leaves were
with-er-ing. The stones of the prison yard would not let the plant
live.
Charney knew that there was but one way to save his treasure. Alas!
how could he hope that it might be done? The stones must be taken up
at once.
Pages:
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139