He took it home to Boston, and my morals began
to improve, but his have never recovered.
He kept it six months, and then returned it to me. I gave it away
twice after that, but it wouldn't stay; it came back. Then I
gave it to our coachman, Patrick McAleer, who was very grateful,
because he did not know the animal, and thought I was trying to
make him wiser and better. As soon as he got wiser and better he
traded it to a heretic for a side-saddle which he could not use,
and there my knowledge of its history ends.
ITALIAN WITHOUT A MASTER
It is almost a fortnight now that I am domiciled in a medieval
villa in the country, a mile or two from Florence. I cannot speak
the language; I am too old not to learn how, also too busy when I
am busy, and too indolent when I am not; wherefore some will
imagine that I am having a dull time of it. But it is not so.
The "help" are all natives; they talk Italian to me, I answer
in English; I do not understand them, they do not understand me,
consequently no harm is done, and everybody is satisfied. In order
to be just and fair, I throw in an Italian word when I have one,
and this has a good influence. I get the word out of the morning paper.
I have to use it while it is fresh, for I find that Italian words
do not keep in this climate. They fade toward night, and next
morning they are gone. But it is no matter; I get a new one out
of the paper before breakfast, and thrill the domestics with it
while it lasts.
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