the dog never went out in winter， unless she was attired in a little lambskin coat which had been made for her； it was fastened round the little dog's neck and body with red ribbons， and was decorated with rosettes and little bells. The dog looked almost like a little kid when she was allowed to go out in winter， and trot after her mistress. And now here she was in the cold， and not dressed. Oh， how would it end？ All his fancies were quickly put to flight； yet he kissed the Metal Pig once more， and then took Bellissima in his arms. The poor little thing trembled so with cold， that the boy ran homeward as fast as he could.

　　“What are you running away with there？” asked two of the police whom he met， and at whom the dog barked. “Where have you stolen that pretty dog？” they asked； and they took it away from him.

　　“Oh， I have not stolen it； do give it to me back again，” cried the boy， despairingly.

　　“If you have not stolen it， you may say at home that they can send to the watch-house for the dog.” Then they told him where the watch-house was， and went away with Bellissima.

　　Here was a dreadful trouble. the boy did not know whether he had better jump into the Arno， or go home and confess everything. They would certainly kill him， he thought.

　　“Well， I would gladly be killed，” he reasoned； “for then I shall die， and go to heaven：” and so he went home， almost hoping for death.

　　the door was locked， and he could not reach the knocker. No one was in the street； so he took up a stone， and with it made a tremendous noise at the door.

　　“Who is there？” asked somebody from within.

　　“It is I，” said he. “Bellissima is gone. Open the door， and then kill me.”

　　then indeed there was a GREat panic. Madame was so very fond of Bellissima. She immediately looked at the wall where the dog's dress usually hung； and there was the little lambskin.

　　“Bellissima in the watch-house！” she cried. “You bad boy！ how did you entice her out？ Poor little delicate thing， with those rough policemen！ and she'll be frozen with cold.”

　　Giuseppe went off at once， while his wife lamented， and the boy wept. Several of the neighbors came in， and amongst them the painter. He took the boy between his knees， and questioned him； and， in broken sentences， he soon heard the whole story， and also about the Metal Pig， and the wonderful ride to the picture-gallery， which was certainly rather incomprehensible. The painter， however， consoled the little fellow， and tried to soften the lady's anger； but she would not be pacified till her husband returned with Bellissima， who had been with the police. Then there was GREat rejoicing， and the painter caressed the boy， and gave him a number of pictures. Oh， what beautiful pictures these were！—figures with funny heads； and， above all， the Metal Pig was there too. Oh， nothing could be more delightful. By means of a few strokes， it was made to appear on the paper； and even the house that stood behind it had been sketched in. Oh， if he could only draw and paint！ He who could do this could conjure all the world before him. The first leisure moment during the next day， the boy got a pencil， and on the back of one of the other drawings he attempted to copy the drawing of the Metal Pig， and he succeeded. Certainly it was rather crooked， rather up and down， one leg thick， and another thin； still it was like the copy， and he was overjoyed at what he had done. The pencil would not go quite as it ought，—he had found that out； but the next day he tried again. A second pig was drawn by the side of the first， and this looked a hundred times better； and the third attempt was so good， that everybody might know what it was meant to represent.

　　And now the glovemaking went on but slowly. The orders given by the shops in the town were not finished quickly； for the Metal Pig had taught the boy that all objects may be drawn upon paper； and Florence is a picture-book in itself for any one who chooses to turn over its pages. On the Piazza dell Trinita stands a slender pillar， and upon it is the goddess of Justice， blindfolded， with her scales in her hand. She was soon represented on paper， and it was the glovemaker's boy who placed her there. His collection of pictures increased； but as yet they were only copies of lifeless objects， when one day Bellissima came gambolling before him： “Stand still，” cried he， “and I will draw you beautifully， to put amongst my collection.”

　　But Bellissima would not stand still， so she must be bound fast in one position. He tied her head and tail； but she barked and jumped， and so pulled and tightened the string， that she was nearly strangled； and just then her mistress walked in.

　　“You wicked boy！ the poor little creature！” was all she could utter.

　　She pushed the boy from her， thrust him away with her foot， called him a most ungrateful， good-for-nothing， wicked boy， and forbade him to enter the house again. Then she wept， and kissed her little half-strangled Bellissima. At this moment the painter entered the room. In the year 1834 there was an exhibition in the Academy of Arts at Florence. Two pictures， placed side by side， attracted a large number of spectators. The smaller of the two represented a little boy sitting at a table， drawing； before him was a little white poodle， curiously shaven； but as the animal would not stand still， it had been fastened with a string to its head and tail， to keep it in one position. The truthfulness and life in this picture interested every one.

　　the painter was said to be a young Florentine， who had been found in the streets， when a child， by an old glovemaker， who had brought him up. The boy had taught himself to draw： it was also said that a young artist， now famous， had discovered talent in the child just as he was about to be sent away for having tied up madame's favorite little dog， and using it as a model. The glovemaker's boy had also become a GREat painter， as the picture proved； but the larger picture by its side was a still greater proof of his talent. It represented a handsome boy， clothed in rags， lying asleep， and leaning against the Metal Pig in the street of the Porta Rosa. All the spectators knew the spot well. The child's arms were round the neck of the Pig， and he was in a deep sleep.

　　the lamp before the picture of the Madonna threw a strong， effective light on the pale， delicate face of the child. It was a beautiful picture. A large gilt frame surrounded it， and on one corner of the frame a laurel wreath had been hung； but a black band， twined unseen among the GREen leaves， and a streamer of crape， hung down from it； for within the last few days the young artist had—died.