“Stop! Come here, naughty Antonio. You cannot make a garden; you are too small. And you dirty your clean apron.”
Antonio dropped the spade as the words of his _madre_ shrilled through the air. He sat down in a discouraged heap on the edge of the path. Always, his _madre_ could persist in tasks, but he was continually interfered with. Why?
But with the buoyancy of childhood, the little man suddenly jumped up. A rattle of tin bells and a strident shriek of protesting, ungreased wheels were the prelude to Luigi’s approach. In his cart of oranges and lemons, with bunches of poppy and wheat stuck in the chinks, Luigi rode down the lane. His smiling face was as russet and wrinkled as an old nut, bits of miracle-hiding clod stuck to his blue smock. As he passed, he tossed an orange to Antonio.
“I will be a farmer. How fine to earn money for my family, as Luigi does,” little Antonio decided. He ran to the house and, pulling out his little cart, loaded it with some of the vegetables that stood in baskets in the kitchen. He trundled it up and down, calling his wares as he had heard Luigi. At first his _madre_ laughed. Then, watching him, her smile furrowed itself into a frown.
“Why play that you are Luigi, who is only a farmer?” she expostulated. “Be a great general. Here are your toy soldiers.” She pulled his little cart away from Antonio and pushed into his arms a box of gaudy tin soldiers.
“Drill them; command them,” the _madre_ urged Antonio.
Antonio watched, sadly, the demolition of the little cart which stood for playing into breadwinning. His soldiers were painted manikins, not very steady on their legs and only slightly interesting. He tried to stand them in rows and they all tumbled down. He changed them for his ball, and his _madre_ suggested that a picture book would be a better plaything for the house, taking the ball away from him. When he was absorbed in the book, she tore him from it for a walk with her in the streets.
So it always happened with Antonio. No one allowed him to _persist_ in an occupation, no one allowed him to _choose_ what he should do, and each day’s activities were _decided for him_.
From a strong-willed baby whose impulses were all good, Antonio drifted into weak-willed little boyhood. It was as if he were daily followed by a spirit of indecision.
