Phil, the Fiddler by Jr. Horatio Alger (ereader for comics .TXT) 📕

with distrust, for he was often ordered away as a nuisance. He stopped playing, and, hugging his violin closely, regarded her watchfully.

“You’re to come in,” said the girl abruptly.

“Che cosa volete?” (1) said Phil, suspiciously.

(1) “What do you want?”

“I don’t understand your Italian rubbish,” said the girl. “You’re to come into the house.”

In general, boys of Phil’s class are slow in learning English. After months, and even years sometimes, their knowledge is limited to a few words or phrases. On the other hand, they pick up French readily, and as many of them, en route for America, spend some weeks, or months, in the French metropolis, it is common to find them able to speak the language somewhat. Phil, however, was an exception, and could manage to speak English a little, though not as well as he could understand it.

“What for I go?” he asked, a little distrustfully.

“My young master wants to hear you play on your fiddle,” said the servant. “He’s sick, and can’t come out.”

“All right!” said Phil, using one of the first English phrases he had caught. “I will go.”

“Come along, then.”

Phil followed his guide into the basement, thence up two flight of stairs, and along a handsome hall into a chamber. The little fiddler, who had never before been invited into a fine house, looked with admiration at the handsome furniture, and especially at the pictures upon the wall, for, like most of his nation, he had a love for whatever was beautiful, whether in nature or art.

The chamber had two occupants. One, a boy of twelve years, was lying in a bed, propped up by pillows. His thin, pale face spoke of long sickness, and contrasted vividly with the brilliant brown face of the little Italian boy, who seemed the perfect picture of health. Sitting beside the bed was a lady of middle age and pleasant expression. It was easy to see by the resemblance that she was the mother of the sick boy.

Phil looked from one to the other, uncertain what was required of him.

“Can you speak English?” asked Mrs. Leigh.

“Si, signora, a little,” answered our hero.

“My son is sick, and would like to hear you play a little.”

“And sing, too,” added the sick boy, from the bed.

Phil struck up the song he had been singing in the street, a song well known to all who have stopped to listen to the boys of his class, with the refrain, “Viva Garibaldi.” His voice was clear and melodious, and in spite of the poor quality of his instrument, he sang with so much feeling that the effect was agreeable.

The sick boy listened with evident pleasure, for he, too, had a taste for music.

“I wish I could understand Italian,” he said, “I think it must be a good song.”

“Perhaps he can sing some English song,” suggested Mrs. Leigh.

“Can you sing in English?” she asked.

Phil hesitated a moment, and then broke into the common street ditty, “Shoe fly, don’t bouder me,” giving a quaint sound to the words by his Italian accent.

“Do you know any more?” asked Henry Leigh, when our hero had finished.

“Not English,” said Phil, shaking his head.

“You ought to learn more.”

“I can play more,” said Phil, “but I know not the words.”

“Then play some tunes.”

Thereupon the little Italian struck up “Yankee Doodle,” which he played with spirit and evident enjoyment.

“Do you know the name of that?” asked Henry.

Phil shook his head.

“It is ‘Yankee Doodle.’”

Phil tried to pronounce it, but the words in his mouth had a droll sound, and made them laugh.

“How old are you?” asked Henry.

“Twelve years.”

“Then you are quite as old as I am.”

“I wish you were as well and strong as he seems to be,” said Mrs. Leigh, sighing, as she looked at Henry’s pale face.

That was little likely to be. Always a delicate child, Henry had a year previous contracted a cold, which had attacked his lungs, and had gradually increased until there seemed little doubt that in the long struggle with disease nature must succumb, and early death ensue.

“How long have you been in this country?”

“Un anno.”

“How long is that?”

“A year,” said Henry. “I know that, because ‘annus’ means a year in Latin.”

“Si, signor, a year,” said Phil.

“And where do you come from?”

“Da Napoli.”

“That means from Naples, I suppose.”

“Si, signor.”

Most of the little Italian musicians to be found in our streets are brought from Calabria, the southern portion of Italy, where they are purchased from their parents, for a fixed sum, or rate of annual payment. But it is usual for them when questioned, to say that they come from Naples, that being the principal city in that portion of Italy, or indeed in the entire kingdom.

“Who do you live with,” continued Henry.

“With the padrone.”

“And who is the padrone?”

“He take care of me—he bring me from Italy.”

“Is he kind to you?”

Phil shrugged his shoulders.

“He beat me sometimes,” he answered.

“Beats you? What for?”

“If I bring little money.”

“Does he beat you hard?”

“Si, signor, with a stick.”

“He must be a bad man,” said Henry, indignantly.

“How much money must you carry home?”

“Two dollars.”

“But it isn’t your fault, if people will not give you money.”

“Non importa. He beat me.”

“He ought to be beaten himself.”

Phil shrugged his shoulders.