The plant had a thousand pretty ways which he noticed. He saw how it always bent a little toward the sun; he saw how the flowers folded their petals before a storm.
He had never thought of such things before, and yet he had often seen whole gardens of flowers in bloom.
One day, with soot and water he made some ink; he spread out his hand-ker-chief for paper; he used a sharp-ened stick for a pen—and all for what? He felt that he must write down the doings of his little pet. 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. There were no fewer than thirty blossoms on its stem.
But one sad morning it began to droop. Charney did not know what to do. He gave it water, but still it drooped. The leaves were with-er-ing. The stones of the prison yard would not let the plant live.
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 up at once.
But this was a thing which the jailer dared not do. The rules of the prison were strict, and no stone must be moved. Only the highest officers in the land could have such a thing done.
Poor Charney could not sleep. Picciola must die. Already the flowers had 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.