The Savoyard looked at me wistfully. I wished to enter into conversation with him. That was not easy. However, I began:—
Pisistratus.—"You must be often hungry enough, my poor boy. Do the mice feed you?"
Savoyard puts his head on one side, shakes it, and stroked his mice.
Pisistratus.—"You are very fond of the mice; they are your only friends, I fear."
Savoyard, evidently understanding Pisistratus, rubs his face gently against the mice, then puts them softly down on a grave, and gives a turn to the hurdy-gurdy. The mice play unconcernedly over the grave.
Pisistratus, pointing first to the beasts, then to the instrument.—"Which do you like best, the mice or the hurdy-gurdy?"
Savoyard shows his teeth—considers—stretches himself on the grass—plays with the mice—and answers volubly.
Pisistratus, by the help of Latin comprehending that the Savoyard says, that the mice are alive and the hurdy-gurdy is not—"Yes, a live friend is better than a dead one. Mortua est hurda-gurda!"
Savoyard shakes his head vehemently.—"Nô—nô! Eccellenza, non ê mortu!" and strikes up a lively air on the slandered instrument. The Savoyard's face brightens—he looks happy: the mice run from the grave into his bosom.
Pisistratus, affected.—"Have you a father—An vivat pater?"