“Will you be quiet？ or I'll break your screaming head；” and she swung about the fire-pot which she held in her hand， while the boy crouched to the earth and screamed.

　　then a neighbor came in， and she had also a marito under her arm. “Felicita，” she said， “what are you doing to the child？”

　　“the child is mine，” she answered； “I can murder him if I like， and you too， Giannina.” And then she swung about the fire-pot. The other woman lifted up hers to defend herself， and the two pots clashed together so violently that they were dashed to pieces， and fire and ashes flew about the room. The boy rushed out at the sight， sped across the courtyard， and fled from the house. The poor child ran till he was quite out of breath； at last he stopped at the church， the doors of which were opened to him the night before， and went in. Here everything was bright， and the boy knelt down by the first tomb on his right， the grave of Michael Angelo， and sobbed as if his heart would break. People came and went， mass was performed， but no one noticed the boy， excepting an elderly citizen， who stood still and looked at him for a moment， and then went away like the rest. Hunger and thirst overpowered the child， and he became quite faint and ill. At last he crept into a corner behind the marble monuments， and went to sleep. Towards evening he was awakened by a pull at his sleeve； he started up， and the same old citizen stood before him.

　　“Are you ill？ where do you live？ have you been here all day？” were some of the questions asked by the old man. After hearing his answers， the old man took him home to a small house close by， in a back street. They entered a glovemaker's shop， where a woman sat sewing busily. A little white poodle， so closely shaven that his pink skin could plainly be seen， frisked about the room， and gambolled upon the boy.

　　“Innocent souls are soon intimate，” said the woman， as she caressed both the boy and the dog. These good people gave the child food and drink， and said he should stay with them all night， and that the next day the old man， who was called Giuseppe， would go and speak to his mother. A little homely bed was prepared for him， but to him who had so often slept on the hard stones it was a royal couch， and he slept sweetly and dreamed of the splendid pictures and of the Metal Pig. Giuseppe went out the next morning， and the poor child was not glad to see him go， for he knew that the old man was gone to his mother， and that， perhaps， he would have to go back. He wept at the thought， and then he played with the little， lively dog， and kissed it， while the old woman looked kindly at him to encourage him. And what news did Giuseppe bring back？ At first the boy could not hear， for he talked a GREat deal to his wife， and she nodded and stroked the boy's cheek.

　　then she said， “He is a good lad， he shall stay with us， he may become a clever glovemaker， like you. Look what delicate fingers he has got； Madonna intended him for a glovemaker.” So the boy stayed with them， and the woman herself taught him to sew； and he ate well， and slept well， and became very merry. But at last he began to tease Bellissima， as the little dog was called. This made the woman angry， and she scolded him and threatened him， which made him very unhappy， and he went and sat in his own room full of sad thoughts. This chamber looked upon the street， in which hung skins to dry， and there were thick iron bars across his window. That night he lay awake， thinking of the Metal Pig； indeed， it was always in his thoughts. Suddenly he fancied he heard feet outside going pit-a-pat. He sprung out of bed and went to the window. Could it be the Metal Pig？ But there was nothing to be seen； whatever he had heard had passed already. Next morning， their neighbor， the artist， passed by， carrying a paint-box and a large roll of canvas.

　　“Help the gentleman to carry his box of colors，” said the woman to the boy； and he obeyed instantly， took the box， and followed the painter. They walked on till they reached the picture gallery， and mounted the same staircase up which he had ridden that night on the Metal Pig. He remembered all the statues and pictures， the beautiful marble Venus， and again he looked at the Madonna with the Saviour and St. John. They stopped before the picture by Bronzino， in which Christ is represented as standing in the lower world， with the children smiling before Him， in the sweet expectation of entering heaven； and the poor boy smiled， too， for here was his heaven.

　　“You may go home now，” said the painter， while the boy stood watching him， till he had set up his easel.

　　“May I see you paint？” asked the boy； “may I see you put the picture on this white canvas？”

　　“I am not going to paint yet，” replied the artist； then he brought out a piece of chalk. His hand moved quickly， and his eye measured the GREat picture； and though nothing appeared but a faint line， the figure of the Saviour was as clearly visible as in the colored picture.

　　“Why don't you go？” said the painter. Then the boy wandered home silently， and seated himself on the table， and learned to sew gloves. But all day long his thoughts were in the picture gallery； and so he pricked his fingers and was awkward. But he did not tease Bellissima. When evening came， and the house door stood open， he slipped out. It was a bright， beautiful， starlight evening， but rather cold. Away he went through the already-deserted streets， and soon came to the Metal Pig； he stooped down and kissed its shining nose， and then seated himself on its back.

　　“You happy creature，” he said； “how I have longed for you！ we must take a ride to-night.”

　　But the Metal Pig lay motionless， while the fresh stream gushed forth from its mouth. The little boy still sat astride on its back， when he felt something pulling at his clothes. He looked down， and there was Bellissima， little smooth-shaven Bellissima， barking as if she would have said， “Here I am too； why are you sitting there？”

　　A fiery dragon could not have frightened the little boy so much as did the little dog in this place. “Bellissima in the street， and not dressed！” as the old lady called it； “what would be the end of this？”