"Don't apologize, General. I beg your pardon. Does old Geppetto live here?"

"Yes, sir, on the floor above. Ring the second bell."

"Thank you."

"Not at all."

Old Geppetto was getting ready to mend an old table the legs of which were red with worm-holes and had in hand a piece of seasoned wood, a splendid piece. He was going to cut it with a hatchet and he had lifted up his hand holding the shining tool, when who knows what queer thoughts made his arm fall heavily. Did he perhaps remember that other famous piece of wood from which the sprightly little old man had shaped the wonderful puppet which had brought him so much bother and trouble? And what had become of him? Why had he sent no news of himself since he had gone out into the world like a real boy? Perhaps the poor little old man would have preferred to have him still at his side, a puppet as he used to be, and of wood out of which he had made him, than to be left thus alone in the last years of his life. He had tried so often to make another Pinocchio, but he had never been able to finish his work. His hands trembled; his eyes were no longer what they used to be, and even the wood--certainly it was the truth about the wood--wasn't what it used to be.

When he heard the bell ring he felt his heart beat, and he ran to open the door, swaying from side to side like a drunken man.

"Who's there?"

"It's I, Geppetto. Don't you recognize me?"

"My Fatina!"

"Yes, indeed, your Fatina who has come to introduce her husband, the Bersaglierino, to you, and to see how you are, and to bring you somebody you are fond of, very fond of," she replied, as they entered.

He gave her a long, questioning glance from beneath his spectacles; then he spied Pinocchio mischievously hiding behind Fatina and the Bersaglierino.

"Oh, Fatina! Fatina! How did they bring my poor puppet to such a state?" sobbed Geppetto as he looked at Pinocchio. "What under the sun is all this machinery and these contraptions? I made him of wood, all of wood, and so splendidly that no one was ever able to imitate him.

Why did you let them abuse him in this way? Wouldn't it have been better if you had let him stay a _real boy_ than to bring him back to me in this condition?"

And the dear little old man couldn't contain himself and gave vent to his sorrow in loud weeping.

Fatina and the Bersaglierino could find no words to comfort him with and looked at him compa.s.sionately, their own throats tightening. When Papa Geppetto had grown a little calmer he took his puppet in his arms and examined him carefully all over, shaking his head and drawing his lips tightly as if he wished to keep his sobs from bursting out again.

He saw the artificial legs, the arm with its steel spring and the tweezers for hands; he saw the large silver plate which supported the breastbone--admired all this up-to-date mechanism, but was not in the least satisfied. The poor little old man preferred his wooden puppet _all of wood_ to the marrow ... and he no longer recognized _his_ old Pinocchio.

"Oh, Fatina!" he said, sighing, "who brought him to such a state?"

"Our country, dear friend."

"Our country?" and for a moment he stood there, his eyes wide open with surprise. "Our country, did you say, Fatina?" Then he was lost in thought again.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

While the old man was bending over Pinocchio, Fatina and Bersaglierino quietly slipped out of the door. Papa Geppetto was again alone with his beloved puppet in the same room where he had first carved the little fellow out of pine wood.

Don't you remember how Pinocchio first broke up everything before he ran away? How he knocked over the chest, rummaged the wardrobe, broke the mirror, upset the little table, turned over the chairs, pulled the pictures off the walls, and tore down the window-curtains? And don't you remember how he left everything in a mess and ran out into the street wrapped in a flowered chintz curtain?

Well, Pinocchio was home again, and Papa Geppetto had long ago repaired the things Pinocchio had broken. Everything was in good order except Pinocchio himself. That was what worried the old man. He did not care much about the mirrors, wardrobes, or window-curtains, but he _did_ care about his little puppet friend whom he loved.

It was getting dark and old Geppetto sat down in a large armchair and held Pinocchio on his lap. As the shadows began to gather and the room to get darker, Papa Geppetto began to nod and soon closed his eyes.

With his arms clasped around Pinocchio, he went to sleep.

If you could now step quietly into the room, you would see both of them asleep. The old man's head was resting on Pinocchio's head, and Pinocchio's on Geppetto's shoulder.

The little puppet was sleeping quietly, but the old man was not. He seemed to be having a bad dream, judging from his sighs and groans.

"Oh, Pinocchio!" he said, aloud, in his sleep, "why did you run away and go to the war? Just look at you! No legs, and one arm gone! I wish you were my dear wooden puppet again."

Then the old man sighed, but kept on sleeping.

After about two hours Papa Geppetto awoke. It was now quite dark, but not so dark that the old man could not see that some change had come over Pinocchio. He looked down at the little sleeping puppet and what do you think he saw? Not artificial legs and an arm. Oh no! Pinocchio was just as he was when he was first made. Pinocchio was again the little wooden puppet!

Papa Geppetto was so overcome with joy that he caught up Pinocchio in his arms and hugged him so tight he nearly smothered the little fellow. And Pinocchio threw his arms around the old man's neck and kissed the top of his bald head.

THE END