“It is near the festa of Christmas,” said Bruno one day. “I have never been to Rome. Will you take me there to hear the talking box on the Corso, father? It both speaks and sings.”
“No,” Bruno’s father was quick in his reply, being a hard man after many lonely years. “The ewe lambs are ailing, and I cannot leave them. And there are no singing boxes in Rome.”
So Bruno followed the old sheep and the lambs to their grassy hill and helped to drive them home at night until it was the eve of the Christmas festa. On this eve, he locked the gate of the fold and turned to go into the hut. His father would be dozing, perhaps, for the cold dusk had crept over the great Campagna and one star shone out in the purple sky. It hung, pointing, over Rome. As Bruno looked up at it, he heard a sound of far-away bells. They might be the bells of Rome. Oh, beautiful Rome, with its gay, bright streets, and its flower carts, and its magic box that could sing and turn loneliness into music!
Bruno pulled the hood of his cloak over his head. His bare feet flashed over the fields of dry grass and wheat stubble. He found the old Appian Road and raced along it in the path of starlight. He was running away. He was going to Rome. For an hour he ran.
He had gone so far and so fast, and his ears rang so with the singing Christmas bells that, at first, he did not hear it—the bleating of a foolish little ewe lamb. Then it came again, and Bruno stopped. The lamb lay under a bunch of dried brown stalks, its flesh torn by thistles and its eyes dull with fear because it had lost its mother.
“Stupid! Why did you run away? I can’t take you home!” Bruno stamped one little brown foot, “I’m going to Rome for Christmas, do you hear? I won’t take you home—” but as he spoke, he stooped down and lifted the trembling, fearful little creature in his arms and turned back toward the fold.
The star path stretched at Bruno’s back now. Ahead were black shadows, and a biting wind whirled small stones that cut his face and made mocking sounds as it scurried through the ruined arches of the aqueduct. He lost the road, and stiff cactus thorns cut his slim ankles. The lamb was heavier with each step. He wouldn’t cry; no Roman lad cries, his father had told him; but he couldn’t find his way. The little shepherd boy dropped to the ground. He could hear the Christmas bells; no, it was a clear, sweet voice coming from a polished wood box that sang him to sleep.
When he opened his heavy eyelids, Piccola’s dancing eyes met his. What a gay little Christmas sprite she looked in her warm crimson hood and cloak! Bruno, himself, lay in his father’s arms and Piccola’s father was lifting the strayed lamb into the two-wheeled yellow cart, a lantern in one hand.
“We had to go to Albano with wool, and on the way back I begged father to stop for you, Bruno, to go back to Rome for Christmas. We couldn’t find you. Your father came with us to look for you, and the lamb told us where you were.”
“My brave little Roman lad!” It was Bruno’s father who stroked his head with long, thin fingers. “We will return with the lamb to the fold and find warm milk for you. Then you may go to Rome for the festa with the little signorina.”