Picciola

by James Baldwin

　　

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Many years ago there was a poor gentleman shut up in one of the greatprisons of France. His name was Char-ney, and he was very sad andun-hap-py. He had been put into prison wrong-ful-ly, and it seemed tohim as though there was no one in the world who cared for him.He could not read, for there were no books in the prison. He was notallowed to have pens or paper, and so he could not write. The timedragged slowly by. There was nothing that he could do to make the daysseem shorter. His only pastime was walking back and forth in the pavedprison yard. There was no work to be done, no one to talk with.One fine morning in spring, Char-ney was taking his walk in the yard.He was counting the paving stones, as he had done a thousand timesbefore. All at once he stopped. What had made that little mound ofearth between two of the stones?He stooped down to see. A seed of some kind had fallen between thestones. It had sprouted; and now a tiny green leaf was pushing its wayup out of the ground. Charney was about to crush it with his foot,when he saw that there was a kind of soft coating over the leaf."Ah!" said he. "This coating is to keep it safe. I must not harm it."And he went on with his walk.The next day he almost stepped upon the plant before he thought of it.He stooped to look at it. There were two leaves now, and the plant wasmuch stronger and greener than it was the day before. He staid by it along time, looking at all its parts.Every morning after that, Charney went at once to his little plant. Hewanted to see if it had been chilled by the cold, or scorched by thesun. He wanted to see how much it had grown.One day as he was looking from his window, he saw the jailer go acrossthe yard. The man brushed so close to the little plant, that it seemedas though he would crush it. Charney trembled from head to foot."O my Pic-cio-la!" he cried.When the jailer came to bring his food, he begged the grim fellow tospare his little plant. He expected that the man would laugh at him;but al-though a jailer, he had a kind heart."Do you think that I would hurt your little plant?" he said. "No,indeed! It would have been dead long ago, if I had not seen that youthought so much of it.""That is very good of you, indeed," said Char-ney. He felt halfashamed at having thought the jailer unkind.Every day he watched Pic-cio-la, as he had named the plant. Every dayit grew larger and more beautiful. But once it was almost broken bythe huge feet of the jailer's dog. Charney's heart sank within him."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 ofthe firewood that was allowed him, and with this he built a littlehouse around the plant.The plant had a thousand pretty ways which he noticed. He saw how italways bent a little toward the sun; he saw how the flowers foldedtheir petals before a storm.He had never thought of such things before, and yet he had often seenwhole gardens of flowers in bloom.One day, with soot and water he made some ink; he spread out hishand-ker-chief for paper; he used a sharp-ened stick for a pen--andall for what? He felt that he must write down the doings of his littlepet. 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. Therewere no fewer than thirty blossoms on its stem.But one sad morning it began to droop. Charney did not know what todo. He gave it water, but still it drooped. The leaves werewith-er-ing. The stones of the prison yard would not let the plantlive.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 upat once.But this was a thing which the jailer dared not do. The rules of theprison were strict, and no stone must be moved. Only the highestofficers in the land could have such a thing done.Poor Charney could not sleep. Picciola must die. Already the flowershad with-ered; the leaves would soon fall from the stem.Then a new thought came to Charney. He would ask the great Napoleon,the em-per-or himself, to save his plant.It was a hard thing for Charney to do,--to ask a favor of the man whomhe hated, the man who had shut him up in this very prison. But for thesake of Picciola he would do it.He wrote his little story on his hand-ker-chief. Then he gave it intothe care of a young girl, who promised to carry it to Napoleon. Ah! ifthe poor plant would only live a few days longer!What a long journey that was for the young girl! What a long, drearywaiting it was for Charney and Picciola!But at last news came to the prison. The stones were to be taken up.Picciola was saved!The em-per-or's kind wife had heard the story of Charney's care forthe plant. She saw the handkerchief on which he had written of itspretty ways."Surely," she said, "it can do us no good to keep such a man inprison."And so, at last, Charney was set free. Of course he was no longer sadand un-lov-ing. He saw how God had cared for him and the little plant,and how kind and true are the hearts of even rough men. And hecher-ished Picciola as a dear, loved friend whom he could neverforget.

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