ITALIAN VIGNETTES.
WE called him "Napoleon Bonaparte " because he came from Sardinia, and though Sardinia is not Corsica it is next door to it. His name was soon shortened to "Boney," and he was indeed a bony little donkey when we bought him for about twenty-five shillings from an itinerant dealer in china and earthenware pots and pipkins. We used to meet him every Sunday morning, manfully struggling with an immense load bound for the market-place ; he ran beside an ordinary donkey which looked nearly three times his size. One morning we asked his master what he would sell " the baby donkey " for. The man laughed. "Baby donkey, signore ! He is four years old. He will never be any bigger; he is a Sardo,' a Sardinian—they are a small breed."
Boney is not much larger than a big Newfoundland dog, and very much like a dog in his ways and in his affection for his people. After some haggling the Sardo became ours, and was presented to the bairn as an Easter egg ! When he first arrived he certainly was a most pitiable little object; he stood before the door with drooping head, limp ears, poor little bent legs, mangy fur, and every bone in his body painfully prominent. Now he is a changed animal; rest and food and kindness have transformed Boney, and he is the wonder of the village. His legs are straight and firm, his head is spirited, with the full dark eyes and shapely neck, and his body round and sleek; he canters along most gaily with the Bairn upon his back—he needs no urging—with a whisk of his tail and a flirt of his heels away he goes ; in fact he is hard to hold sometimes. His one failing is a too great love of the opposite sex ! It leads him into difficulties, because he is quite reck- less of obstacles, and once rushed down the village street
after a fair one drawing a wine cart. He was missing all one night, and was brought back next morning by a charcoal burner, who had rescued him from being nearly kicked to death in a field of horses.
The Sardinian donkeys are very strong and hardy; they are accustomed to run wild upon the mountains and to eat anything. Now that Boney is in good condition he is equal to pulling a fairly heavy load, and his keep costs nothing, for during all the long dry summer, when not a blade of grass was to be seen, he munched away contentedly at the leaves of the maize and the weeds in the garden, a taste which he seemed to share in common with Orlando, the boy ; when dinner-time came Orlando would seek a weedy corner and there make a selection of green things, which he ate happily with his piece of bread. Several times he showed me various roots which he said were " buono," but I never had courage enough to taste them. His repasts were always of this frugal nature; it was only for the evening meal that he allowed him- self the luxury of a sparrow! How he caught them no one knew, but nearly every day he managed to secure one and shut it up in the bath-room—which was then in process of building —till it was time to go home, when he took it away with him in his pocket-handkerchief.
A Sardinian donkey feels himself well-fed upon weeds, dry bean-bine, brambles, or almost any garden rubbish. Bonaparte has had a few dainties, such as an occasional apple or pear or a piece of bread, and his heart has been quite won by these delicacies—a more affectionate little creature could not be found. He spends the greater part of his time under a large shady walnut tree which commands the two approaches to the house, and he never fails to bray, as a pleasant greeting, when any member of the family comes in sight. He shares our walks almost like a dog. He trots along, stopping to nibble here and there, but always following ; and when the nuts are ripe and the woods a fairyland of green and gold, Boney goes with us and brings home upon his back our sack of chestnuts and the Bairn as well.
Sardinian donkeys need no stable. All the same, when the nights are cold and wet we do not like to think of Bonaparte being out, so we put him in a "grotto," of which there are several in the garden. Cement has been dug out from the rock at different times for building purposes and left these very convenient " grottoes," where all sorts of things may be stored, including barrels of wine and Bonaparte !
Were this England or Germany the whole neighbourhood would probably have been converted into vast cement works, as all the soil seems practically cement. Being Italy, when a man needs " pozzolana " he takes a sack and a donkey and scrapes up the road and carries it away, or picks at the rocky sides of a lane; one repeatedly comes upon these excavations, and it seems as if gigantic rabbits had been burrowing everywhere. At first we used to take refuge in these places when caught by the rain, but the peasants warned us they were most unsafe, and indeed only some months ago two boys, sheltering from a thunderstorm, were buried by the sudden fall of rock and earth, and killed. There is no fear of Bonaparte being buried alive, fortunately, as our grottoes are quite safe. The charming little beast has so endeared himself to everyone that great would be the sorrow if evil befell him. Although we have been offered for him three times the price we gave, he shall never leave this haven of refuge, where food is plentiful and whacks are scarce.
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