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Little Piccola by Nora A. Smith. Piccola lived in Italy, where the

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oranges grow, and where all the
year the sun shines warm and bright.

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I suppose you think Piccola very strange
name for a little girl, but in

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her country it was not strange at
all, and her mother thought it the

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sweetest name a little girl ever had. Piccola had no kind father, no

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big brother or sister, and no
sweet baby to play with in love.

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She and her mother lived all alone
in an old stone house that looked on

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a dark, narrow street. They
were very poor, and the mother was

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away from home almost every day,
washing clothes and scrubbing floors, and working

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hard to earn money for her little
girl and herself. So you see,

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Piccola was alone a great deal of
the time. And if she had not

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been a very happy, contented little
child, I hardly know what she would

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have done. She had no playthings
except a heap of stones in the back

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yard that she used for building houses, and a very old, very ragged

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doll that her mother had found in
the street one day. But there was

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a small round hole in the stone
wall at the back of her yard,

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and her greatest pleasure was to look
through that into her neighbor's garden. When

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she stood on a stone and put
her eyes close to the hole, she

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could see the green grass in the
garden, and smell the sweet flowers,

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and even hear the water splashing into
the fountain. She had never seen any

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one walking in the garden, for
it belonged to an old gentleman who did

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not care about grass and flowers.
One day in the autumn, her mother

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told her that the old gentleman had
gone away and had rented his house to

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a family of little American children,
who who had come with their sick mother

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to spend the winter in Italy.
After this, Piccola was never lonely,

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for all day along the children ran
and played and danced and sang in the

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garden. It was several weeks before
they saw her at all, and I

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am not sure they ever would have
done so. But one day the kitten

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ran away, and in chasing her, they came close to the wall and

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saw Piccola's black eyes looking through the
hole in the stones. They were a

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little frightened at first and did not
speak to her. But the next day

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she was there again, and rose
the oldest girl went up to the wall

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and talked to her a little while. When the children found that she had

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no one to play with and was
very lonely, they talked to her every

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day, and often brought her fruits
and candies and passed them through the hole

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in the wall. One day they
even pushed the kitten through, but the

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hole was hardly large enough for her, and she mewed and scratched and was

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very much frightened. After that,
the little boy said he would ask his

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father if the hole might not be
made larger, and then Piccola could come

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in and play with them. The
father had found out that Piccola's mother was

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a good woman, and that the
little girl herself was sweet and kind,

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so that he was very glad to
have some of the stones broken away and

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an opening maid for Piccola to come
in. How excited she was, and

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how glad the children were when she
first stepped into the garden. She wore

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her best dress, a long,
bright colored woolen skirt and a white waist.

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Round her neck was a string of
beads, and on her feet were

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little wooden sandals. It would seem
very strange to us when it not to

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wear wooden shoes, but Piccola and
her mother had never worn anything else,

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and never had any money to buy
stockings. Piccola almost always ran about barefooted

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like the kittens and the chickens and
the little ducks. What a good time

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they had that day, And how
glad Piccola's mother was that her little girl

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could have such a pleasant, safe
place to play in while she was away

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at work. By and by December
came, and the little Americans began to

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talk about Christmas. One day when
Piccola's curly head and bright eyes came peeping

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through the hole in the wall,
and they ran to her and helped her

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in, And as they did so, they all asked her at once what

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she thought she would have for a
Christmas present? A Christmas present, said

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Piccola, Why what is that?
All the children looked surprised at this,

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and Rose said, rather great,
dear Piccola, don't you know what Christmas

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is? Oh? Yes, Piccola
knew. It was the happy day when

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the baby Christ was born, And
she had been to church on that day

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and heard the beautiful singing, and
had seen the picture of the Babe lying

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in the manger with cattle and sheep, sleeping round about. Oh, yes,

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she knew all that very well,
But what was a Christmas present?

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Then the children began to laugh and
to answer her. Altogether there was such

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a clatter of tongues that she could
hear only a few words now and then,

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such as chimney, Santa Claus,
stockings, reindeer, Christmas Eve,

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candies, and toys. Piccola put
her hands over her ears and said,

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oh, I can't understand one word
you tell me Rose. Then Rose told

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her all about jolly Santa Claus,
with his red cheeks and white beard and

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fur coat, and about his reindeer
and sleigh full of toys. Every Christmas

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Eve, said Rose, he comes
down the chimney and fills the stockings of

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all the good children. So Piccola, you hang up your stocking, and

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who knows what a beautiful Christmas present
you will find when morning comes. Of

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course, Piccola thought this was a
delightful plan, and was very pleased to

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hear about it. Then all the
children told her of every Christmas Eve they

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could remember, and of the presents
they had had, so that she went

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home thinking of nothing but dolls and
hoops and balls and ribbons and marbles.

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And wagons and kites. She told
her mother about Santa Claus, and her

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mother seemed to think that perhaps he
did not know that there was any little

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girl in that house, and very
likely he would not come at all.

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But Piccola felt very sure Santa Claus
would remember her, for her little friends

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had promised to send a letter up
the chimney to remind him. Christmas Eve

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came at last, Piccola's mother hurried
home from her work. They had their

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little supper of soup and bread,
and soon it was bedtime time to get

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ready for Santa Claus. But oh, Piccola remembered then for the first time

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that the children had told her she
must hang up her stocking, and she

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hadn't any, and neither had her
mother. How sad, how sad it

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was. Now Santa Claus would come
and perhaps be angry because he couldn't find

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any place to put the present.
The poor little girl stood by the fireplace,

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and the big tears began to run
down her cheeks. Just then her

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mother called to her, hurry,
Piccola, come to bed. What did

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she do? But she stopped crying
and tried to think, and in a

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moment she remembered her wooden shoes and
ran off to get one of them.

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She put it close to the chimney
and said to herself, surely Santa Claus

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will know what it's there, for
he will know I haven't any stockings,

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so I gave him the shoe instead. Then she went off happily to her

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bed and was asleep almost as soon
as she had nestled close to her mother's

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side. The sun had only just
begun to shine next morning when Piccola awoke.

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With one jump, she was out
on the floor and running toward the

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chimney. The wooden shoe was lying
where she had left it, but you

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could never never guess what was in
it. Piccola had not meant to wake

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her mother, but this surprise was
more than any little girl could bear and

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yet be quiet. So she danced
to the bed with the shoe in her

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hand, calling mother, mother,
look, look see the present Santa Claus

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brought me. Her mother raised her
head and looked into the shoe. Why,

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Piccola, she said, A little
chimney swallow nestling in your shoe.

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What a good Santa Claus to bring
you a bird? Good Santa Claus,

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dear Santa Claus, cried Piccola,
and she kissed her mother, and kissed

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the bird, and kissed the shoe, and even threw kisses up the chimney.

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She was so happy. When the
birdling was taken out of the shoe,

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they found that he did not try
to fly, only to hop around

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the room, And as they looked
closer, they could see that one of

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his wings was hurt a little,
but the mother bounded up carefully so that

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it did not seem to pain him. And he was so gentle that he

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took a drink of water from a
cup, and even ate crumbs and seeds

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out of Piccola's hands. She was
a proud little girl when she took her

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Christmas present to show the children in
the garden. They had had a great

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many gifts, dolls that could say
Mamma, bright, picture books, trains

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of cars, toy pianos, but
not one of them playthings was alive like

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Piccola's birdling. They were as pleased
as she, and Rose hunted about the

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house until she found a large wicker
cage that belonged to a blackbird she once

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had. She gave the cage to
Piccola, and the Swallows seemed to make

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himself quite at home in it at
once, and sat on the perch,

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winking his bright eyes at the children. Rose had saved a bag of candies

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for Piccola, And when she went
home at last, with the cage in

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her dear swallow safely inside it,
I am sure there was not a happier

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life little girl in the whole country
of Italy. End of Little Piccola by

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Nora A. Smith.