Many years ago, there was a poor gentleman locked up in one of France's great prisons. His name was Chaney, and he was very sad and unhappy. He had been put into prison wrongfully, and it seemed to him as though no one in the world cared for him. He could neither read nor write, as there were no books in the prison, and he was not allowed to have a pen or paper, so he could not write. The time dragged slowly by; there was nothing he could do to make the days seem shorter; his only pastime was walking back and forth in the paved prison yard. There was no work to be done and no one to talk to.
One fine morning in spring, Charney was taking his walk in the yard. He was counting the paving stones, as he had done a thousand times before. Then, all at once, Charney stopped what had made that little mound of earth between two of the stones. He stooped down to see a seed of some kind had fallen between the stones, it had sprouted, and now a tiny green leaf was pushing its way up out of the ground. Charney was about to crush it with his foot when Charney saw a kind of soft coating over the leaf. "Hey," he said, "this coding is to keep it safe I must not harm it," and he went on with his walk. The next day, he almost stepped upon the plant before he thought of it. He stooped to look at it. There were two leaves now, and the plant was much healthier and greener than it was the day before. He stayed by it a long time, looking at all its parts. Every morning after that, Charney went at once to his little plant. He wanted to see if it had been killed by the cold or scorched by the sun. He wanted to see how much it had grown. One day, as he looked from his window, he saw the jailer go across the yard. The man brushed so close to his little plant that it seemed as though he would crush it. Charney trembled from head to foot. "Oh, my Picciola", he cried. When the jailer came to bring his food, he begged the grim fellow to spare his little plant.
He expected that the man would laugh at him. But although a jailer, he had a kind heart man. "Do you think I would hurt your little plant?" He said, "no, indeed, it would have been dead long ago if I had not seen that. You thought so much of it." "That is very good of you, indeed," said the jailer. Charney felt half ashamed at having thought the jailers are unkind people. Every day he watched Picciola as he had named the plant, every day, as it grew larger and more beautiful, but once it was almost broken by the huge feet of the jailer's dog Chanis, Charney's heart sank within him. "Picciola must have a house." He said, "I will see if I can make one." So though the nights were chilly, he took some part of the firewood allowed to him day by day. And with this, he built a little house around the plant. The plant had a thousand pretty ways, which he noticed. He saw how it always bent a little toward the sun. He saw how the flowers folded their petals before a storm.
He had never thought of such things before in his life, and yet he had often seen whole gardens of flowers in bloom. So one day, with soot and water, he made some ink, spread out his handkerchief for paper, used a sharpened stick for a pen and all for what he felt that he must write down his little doings pet. He spent all his time with the plant. "See, my lord and my lady," the jailer would say when he saw the plant. As the summer passed by, Picciola grew more lovely every day; there were no fewer than 30 blossoms on its stem. But one sad morning, it began to droop. Charney did not know what to do. He gave it water, but it's still drooped. The leaves were withering. The stones of the prison yard would not let the plant live.
Charney knew that there was but some way to save his treasure. But, alas, how could he hope that it might be done? The stones must be taken up at once, but this was a thing which the jailer dared not do. The rules of the prison were strict, and no stone must be moved. Only the highest officers in the land could have such a thing done. Poor Charney could not sleep; Picciola must die so soon. The flowers had withered, the leaves would soon fall from the stem. Then a new thought came to Charney, and he would ask the great Napoleon, the Emperor himself, to save his plant.
It was a hard thing for a Chinese man to ask a favour of the man he hated, the man who had shut him up in this very prison. But for the sake of Picciola, he would do First, he. He wrote his little story on his handkerchief; then, he gave it to the care of a young girl who promised to carry it to Napoleon if the poor plant would only live a few days longer. What a long journey that was for the young girl, what a long, dreary waiting it was for Charney and Picciola. But at last, news came to the prison. The Stones were to be taken up. Picciola was saved. The Emperor's kind wife had heard the story of Chinese care for the plant. She saw the handkerchief on which he had written of its pretty ways. Indeed, she said, it can do us no good to keep such a man in prison. And so, at last, Charney was set free. Of course, he was no longer sad and unloving. He saw how God had cared for him and the little plant and how kind and genuine are the hearts of even rough men. And he cherished Picciola as a dear, loved friend whom he could never forget.
Stories Retold:- Original Source:- Unknown
