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Updated: June 29, 2025
That evening I was distracted. 'I can't do a paper on mathematics, and I won't! I said stoutly; 'but I'll do such a paper on a subject I can write about as will open their foolish eyes and make them see how wrong they are." Before me on the table lay the book I loved, the most wonderful story in which was 'Picciola' by Saintine. Instantly I began to write. Breathlessly I wrote for hours.
I will not only have the stones raised that are killing his Picciola, but I will pardon him. He shall be free because of the love he bears his plant." So the prisoner left his lonely cell carrying with him his Picciola, his little one whom he had saved and who in turn had set him free. The room was dark, the fire was out and a little girl sat crying all alone in the ashes.
Searching, he found that as Picciola had grown taller her stem had had grown larger, and now there was not room enough for it in the crevice between the stones. Her sap, her life blood, was running away, as the rough edges of the stones cut into her delicate stem. Nothing could save her but to lift those cruel stones. The prisoner tore at them with his weak hands.
'I thought you cared for thistles; for Miss May showed me one at Coombe; but it was not like what they are here the spikes pointing out and pointing in along the edges of the leaves, and the scales lapping over so wonderfully in the bud. 'Picciola! said the Doctor to himself; and aloud, 'Then you have time to enjoy them?
I will take care for her, and she shall be to me as the povera who is dead! Come, picciola!" Mrs. Williams had by this time so far recovered from her amazement as to find voice enough to demand of Nelly whether she was really going to be so ungrateful as to leave a place where she had been so kindly treated, and ruin herself for life, by going off with a wandering character like that.
It's just as well after all even in the nineteenth century not to expose the exotic flower of men's belief to the rude winds of fair criticism. Picciola! it might be blighted, poor thing, which would be a pity. Perhaps one does more harm than good by exposing antiquated errors." And with a complacent shrug of the shoulders, and a slight smile of self-admiration, Bruce leant back in his armchair.
So the little plant grew and grew, and opened her flowers and sent out her perfume to make glad the heart of her lonely friend. But, alas! the day came when Picciola began to droop and wither. She seemed about to die. The poor prisoner was frantic with grief and cried, "Is my little one, my joy, my hope, the only thing for which I live, to be taken from me?"
Fearing that other storms might come when he was shut away from her, he built a little house around her with the wood that was given him to keep him warm, and made a roof over her with a mat which he wove from the straw of his own bed. This made him happy; for, though he could be with his Picciola for but one short hour each day, he felt that she was safe.
After much cogitation she decides for Félix, whilst offering her friendship to Georges, who seems but moderately satisfied with this arrangement; and then, when husband and wife leave for distant countries, Georges, who cannot bear the thought of being parted from his dear Picciola, enters the service of the young couple and accompanies them on their honeymoon."
We do not believe there is a human being who would not become a passionate lover of plants, if circumstances once made it imperative to tend upon and watch the growth of one. The history of Picciola for substance has been lived over and over by many a man and woman who once did not know that there was a particle of plant-love in their souls.
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