Mamma Margherita

St. John Bosco's mother

by

Marieli and Rita Benziger

THE BENZIGER SISTERS, Publishers

Altadena, California 91001

Contents

IBeginnings and Background4

IIThe Bosco Family17

IIINew Arrival21

IVHunger Years 1816-1817 (Part I)24

All Alone (Part II)29

VBasic Fundamentals 33

VIHer Children 38

VIIAge of Reason to Eleven 46

VIIIHeartaches53

IXGrammar School60

XStudies in Chieri66

XISeminarian71

XIIUncertain 77

XIIIOratory87

XIVBoys! Boys! Boys!96

XVBoarders 100

XVIAttacked106

XVII Adieu113

PREFACE

These pages contain no adventure nor excitement. Those expecting it had best put this book down at once… and forget all about Mammma Margherita. These pages deal with plain, humdrum facts Nothing extraordinary, just the monotonous life of a peasant. A simple country woman who never even ventured furthcr than thirty miles from her home.

Mamma Margherita after five happy years of married life found herself widowed. This is the story of her struggle to survive. Mamma Margherita became great only because she did simple things well. This is the story of every-day events. Of the mother who became a tiller of the soil, who took the place of a man. Of a mother who cooked at the hearth to feed her starving children. Of the seamstress who mended and made clothes. The housekeeper who swept all day and most of the night fighting dust and mud. The motherly woman who tidied that there might be u semblance of home, then returned to the monotonous task of peeling--peeling-peeling more potatoes, stacks of vegetables so as to keep hungry bodies fed. The nurse who bound wounds, rubbed ointments, brewed soothing teas. The mother par excellence who knew who needed a kind word, a helping hand, who wiped tears and encouraged and cheered.

Margherita Occhiena who married Francis Bosco had had no education. Margherita had never spent one hour in school. She could not write and barely read. Yet, great was her love of God - so great, so very great - that she could instill it into the hearts and minds of her children. Her son John was the receptive vessel into which she poured this surplus love of God and deep spirit of Faith.

Mamma Margherita gave the world a saint. John Bosco hecame the father of the poor, father of the orphan, father of the workingman's son. Saint John Bosco alleviated thc lot of the worker and trained the ignorant into becoming capable mechanics, printers, bookbinders, tailors and shoemakers. Yet, in reality, the credit all goes to that simple peasant, his mother. Her simple life reminds each of us that we too can make our humdrun, monotpnpus lives sublime.

Chapter 1

Beginnings and Background

Perched high on the summit of one of the many undulating Piedmont hills stood Capriglio. This village of five hundred souls overlooked the great Montferrat plain which was watered by the Po River and its tributaries. A teeming farming population lived off the richness of this fertile plain. Agricultural laborers worked the lowlands but inhabited hilltop villages. They lived in clusters of houses that were always crowded and built close to each other. The peasants who had occupied these same dwellings for centuries had found they could better protect themselves and their families from sudden onslaught of enemies; also in times of flood they could quickly escape to safety.

These were the meadow-lands of Montferrat situated in northern Italy. Considered as amongst the most fertile in all of Europe they seethed with activity, for mile after mile of flat plateau was carefully cultivated. This was a region interspersed with huge, steep, undulating hills. Here were hundreds of strange looking hills, hills that elsewhere would have been classified as mountains. They rose like strange molehills, a thousand five hundred feet from this flat landscape, resembling inactive volcanoes covered with verdant slopes. Each of these hills was surmounted by a church or chapel. Like a nesting hen it encompassed the homes within its radius with maternal benevolence.

This wonderful land was the county of Asti and on its soil the peasants had been made prosperous by the very vineyards that dotted every hilly slope. Nurtured with loving care in Asti were the muscats. When these grapes ripened they were pressed, bottled, and made into sparkling Asti wines noted throughout all of Italy for its sweetness and health-giving properties.

Not far from one of these hilltop villages stood Capriglio. Close to its lovely chapel lived a peasant family no different from the rest of the simple farming folk, devout, thrifty, hard-working Melchior Occhiena and his wife Dominiqua Bossone who had eight children, three girls and five boys. The soil they lived on had been handed down from father to son for generations. The land that was theirs had been good to them though they in turn had been good to Mother Earth, for they had carefully put back into the ground by tilling and fertilizing all that they had taken out in crops.

The method of farming they employed had been taught by their ancestors centuries before. Until the coming of the Benedictine monks, who settled at Bobbio-not too far distant- the Montferrat plains had been barren and useless. An Irishman, the saintly Columbanus had sought shelter in the hilly mountain slopes of Bobbio. He was an authority on farming. Soon he had followers who worked the soil and prayed at the same time. These monks taught the ignorant country folk much about the land. They instructed them in the art of enriching and irrigating and planting the barren soil. The Po River and its tributaries were made servants of a people. Along the streams mulberry trees were planted. Precious crops of wheat, oats, barley and corn kept a hungry population well fed. Vines were transported from France and every available space was dotted with vineyards, so that soon the arid plain of Montferrat became a veritable paradise. Piedmont and the neighboring state of Lombardy became one of the most successful agricultural projects in all of Europe.

The traditions of how to treat the soil and what to do were passed on from father to son. Experience was the teacher, the children learned first-hand from parents and these in turn taught the succeeding generations. Had the soil of Piedmont not been so fertile its hardy people would have starved.

Over the centuries this land had been decimated by wars. Unfortunately, Piedmont was merely a sort of buffer state. Its location was most unfavorable for it lay close to the foothills of the Alps and Appennines. The very word "Piedmont" meant land at the foot of the mountains. Unfortunately the great St. BernardPass was too close. Through its ravines, from time immemorial, man had chosen to use this as a pathway leading from France into Piedmont and then on to Rome. As far back into the ages as there was a written word, there was mention of this land being trampled by the multitude of armies that marched in and marched out.

In spite of the dangers entailed by living in a buffer state, Melchior Occhiena was contented. There had been a long era of peace and prosperity. He had been able to raise a family. He hoped even with time to save enough to send a few of his children to school. None of the peasants could read or write. When deeds or wills or marriage contracts had to be made out the village priest was called in. He was the only educated man in the neighborhood who could write as well as read. In spite of the lack of education these Piedmontese had a knowledge all of their own. Tradition was a thing that was passed on down from father to son. Tradition meant sharing knowledge, the facts that might enhance the future.

The great facts of history, the early makings of their own land were discussed at the fireside during the long wintery nights. Once evening prayers had been recited with all the family on their knees before a picture of the Crucified, the head of that house would sit and tell tales. He would talk about the rumors of war in neighboring France. How there was not merely a war but at that very moment the Kingdom of France was seething with revolutionists who had risen, done away with their king and ruler demanding food and justice. News of the cruel happenings in nearby France seeped in over the great St. Bernard Pass. People wondered. They became afraid.

Amongst the children who crowded around Papa Occhiena, the great storyteller, was Margherita a pale-faced, blue-eyed little child of seven. The third oldest had been born on April 1, 1788. Nothing pleased her more than to hear her fond parent talk about the past. She already knew by heart all the historical data which made of Piedmont a buffer state. Then she would be lost in thought as her eyes gazed at the distant mountains. Each peak, each town, had been impregnated into her childish mind. She was glad that she lived then and not before the birth of Christ. How frightening things must have been when in 390 B.C. Brennus the Gaelic chief, with his fierce troops crossed into Italy via the Alpine Pass of St. Bernard to sack Rome and to defeat the Greeks. In 112 B.C. Emperor Augustus retaliated. He brought soldiers all the way from Rome and not only conquered his opponents but marched as far as distant Spain. By 57 B.C. the great Caesar came with his crack cavalry troops. His Twelfth Legion swept through Piedmont, up the great pass-lands to form a stronghold on the French part of the mountain at Martigny. The route into Italy and out of Italy had to be kept open and free for Roman conquerors.

With the advent of Christianity came new conquests. Rome's power declined. Emperor Charlemagne in A.D. 773 led a victorious army into Italy. Then came peace. After such suffering, the impoverished Piedmontese took time to recuperate from their ills. Though there were disadvantages living at the foot of a mountain corridor, there were also gains. Piedmont was backed by a high chain of Alps and Appennines. These mountains extended in a four hundred mile semi-circle, almost enclosing, fully protecting on three sides the fertile Montferrat Plain. The icy winter winds that swept through most of Europe from the Arctic were thus held back. The cold weather which turned most of the Continent into a field of ice and snow could not reach the fertile Piedmont country which remained green far into November, in spite of the fact that the distant Mont Blanc and Monte Rosa were shrouded in a frigid blanket of ice.

Summer after summer, row after row of wheat sheaves gleamed in the fields. The scorching sun bleached giant haystacks. Even corn husks burst open to expose golden kernels. Cattle and colts grazed upon the gentle slopes while vineyards were interspaced wherever there was a chance to grow the muscat grape that produced the sweetest Italian wines. The stubby mulberry trees were planted as hedges along irrigation streams or as windbreaks.

They had a multiple purpose. Their long pliable branches removed each fall were woven into baskets, while leaves kept stilling the appetite of gnawing silkworms and children ate the purple berries, or women brought them home for making into jams.

The life of every farmer was busily spent in catching up. It was the making up that took so much of his time. The making up after a year of drought, the making up after a cold destructive winter, or the cleaning up after the early spring flood. There was always something to keep Papa Occhiena on his toes. Once this, once that, never time to rest and take it easy. Work was the every-day vocabulary of these simple, thrifty, and hard-working peasants.

To the people of Piedmont things looked rosy, though on the other side of the mountains there were rumors of a horrible revolution. Frenchmen were fighting a stupid civil war. Their competitive neighbors, the French wine growers, were busily engaged installing guillotines. It was rumored that they were beheading anyone who had a title, wealth, or excess property.

Things looked rosy to the Asti wine merchants. Overnight the price of wine had soared to excessive heights. Wine was sky-high in France. If they waited long enough, things would work out in their favor, They would be able to cash in on the ill-fortunes of their neighbors.

Papa Occhiena sadly shook his head. He told about the newly invented French toy, the guillotine. He really could not see how politics and farming could go hand in hand-rash companions that would come to an untimely end. He and his children hoped and prayed that God would spare them and their country the sorrows of war-above all revolution.

Yearly by the beginning of December the vendemmia was over. Papa Occhiena had stored the new wine in his cellar. No one knew better than he that the relentless cycle of the agricultural year which had just ended, would now have to begin all over again. Hurriedly, for time was of utmost importance, he spent the rest of December and most of January in the vineyards with his children. They donned their warmest clothes. Bundled against the foggy dampness they pruned the sorry looking grape plants.

When the vine grower had finished pruning, the dead wood was gathered by the younger children and bound into faggots. Once home these bundles of wood were used in the fireplace for cooking. Nothing was ever wasted. Each twig, each piece of wood was worth its weight in gold, for wood as well as coal was scarce.

Though the vineyards with their ugly twisted stumps were cold and barren, February, March, and April were devoted to tilling the soil. The yoke of white oxen passed slowly, very slowly between the vines, tracing deep furrows with the old fashioned plough.

Rain, sun, and air were admitted to the caked soil and soon with the coming of May the growing buds would become stems and leaves and tendrils. The tempo of work in the fields increased. There was much labor, trimming useless tendrils and stems so that nothing would sap the strength of 'the vine. Year after year it was the same story. Heaven was stormed. There were so many risks involved. So many ifs and buts. Change of weather meant a menace for the future crops. Spring with its complex, unpredictable moods might spell disaster. Moisture was dangerous, early dew, morning fogs, heavy rain, and last but not least, the greatest killer of all hopes, hail.

June meant the same cares, the same anxieties surrounding the expansion and riotous growth of the vine now in its full glory of small bunches of grapes and foliage. Papa Occhiena was out at dawn with his children, blowing the pale yellow sulphur dust, or spraying the leaves blue with jets of copper phosphate, the panacea against all vineyard ills. Finally by July the bunches of grapes hung in heaviness. There was another bout of ploughing up and down the rows of vines, the mopping of the sweaty brow, the lifting of the heart in prayer and some cursing, for man could do no more. The sun, and sun alone could put the final touch of Midas upon the product of God's glory and the patient toil of man.

The little time to spare in August and September had to be stolen from the wheat and cornfields, things had to be in readiness for the coming vendemmia. There were casks that had to be tapped, casks to be washed then soaked so that the wood would not crack when the petulant wine was poured into the hollow containers. There were countless buckets to be cleaned, for they would hold the grapes when the picking season came around. There were the presses, the strainers, and a dozen other things which only the wine grower knew about. Not an hour could be wasted once the grapes bursting with ripeness were ready for harvesting.

By October the Occhiena family and all of Asti were astir, their comings and goings all pertaining to the vendemmia. Like clockwork without a word of explanation each vintage grower knew instinctively when to start the picking. The day was chosen according to the weather, also the degree of maturity of the grapes. With scissors and wooden buckets the army of pickers trooped off to the vineyards. From early dawn until late afternoon they gathered only the ripest bunches. Mid-afternoon the pickers ceased cutting from the vine. The secret of delicious Asti wine lay in crushing the berries as soon as they were picked. The buckets of grapes were thrown into all types of containers, those on wheels, carried on backs, anything just as long as the grapes reached the cellar in quick succession. There stood Papa Occhiena in his full glory. Once a year, he wore shorts for this all important occasion. It was essential. Barefooted, he lowered himself into a huge vat. Pail after pail of grapes, just as they had been cut from the vines, were tossed into the huge wooden vat. Papa Occhiena started his strange, rhythmic dance. . . heel toe, toe heel. All day long he squeezed with his 200 pounds the luscious grapes between his feet, breaking the skin, bruising the fruit. An occupation he would yield to no one else. An honor passed on down from father to son. He ceased his work of treading grapes only long enough for the crushed pulp to be tossed out into huge one thousand litre vats, then he was back, as soon as possible treading more grapes.

After a few days the cellar was emptied of the human inhabitants. Silence settled over the casks. Then out of nowhere flitted an army of gnats. Hundreds of thousands came year after year as suddenly as they had left, to dance their wild ballet over the fermenting, bubbling grape juice. Much, in fact everything, depended on those first twelve days. Patience had to be exercised, for only when the fermentation process ceased would the wooden plug at the bottom of the keg be opened. When the bung was uncorked, then the first crude product flowed into new barrels. Whatever residue remained was pressed by hand. The last drop of precious wine was extracted. The pulp was collected and carted to the market to be sold to tartar markers.

Papa Occhiena then locked the doors. No one was ever present when after tasting, he added a little pinch of this, a little of that. He tested and added a speck of sugar, then sealed the precious casks for time to mature his wine. There Asti winegrowers prided themselves on the genuineness of their product. The pure juice of grapes grown in their fertile Asti soil had not been tampered with.

The identical recipe used by their ancestors centuries before would soon be ready for marketing. Then came a period of waiting before the wine could be filtered. During this time there were plenty of chores on the farm to keep the household busy. Finally when the buyers came to test, to check, haggle, and argue over the new vintage, they all left satisfied. A price had been agreed upon which pleased the grower and met with the approval of the dealer.

Into the midst of this happy countryside of a contented, prosperous people marched a ragged, barefoot army of fifty thousand starving Frenchmen. During the fall of 1794, as if a plague of locusts had descended on them, they found themselves saddled with French emigres. There were old men and young ones, mothers with babes in arm, children of every age, they all poured into Piedmont. The nobility and aristocracy of France risked life and limb in a frantic effort to run away from the dreaded guillotine. Any death was preferable to having one's head chopped off. Even the crossing of the dangerous snowbound Mount Saint Bernard was eagerly attempted in the hopes of escaping death at the hands of the French revolutionaries.

The simple peasants gladly housed the emigres in their barns, hay lofts, or farm houses. They had never experienced any of the luxuries of the outside world. What they had to offer was of the most primitive. Yet the French nobility accustomed to fine laces, silken quilts, linen bedding were deeply grateful for the hard mattresses of corn husks, a glass of Asti wine and hot polenta. With a warm place to rest and food they could survive the long, cold, dreary winter months. Overnight these erstwhile princes had become paupers begging for a crust of bread.

Pappa Occhiena went about with a heavy heart. He had been generous to these strangers. He had sheltered and fed untold numbers. He had a weird premonition. What would happen to the simple Corsican general who overnight had become a national hero? True he had stemmed the tide of revolution. Napoleon Bonaparte had brought order out of chaos. He had called an amnesty. The refugees had happily flocked back to France. Papa Occhiena shook his head sadly. He feared that the new conqueror might not be satisfied with the victories he had acquired in France.

What if success would turn the head of this upstart? People paid no attention to the reasoning of Papa Occhiena. He was merely a peasant. What did he know about world politics? Why should one be so pessimistic? Time proved he had been right. The church bells soon stopped their melodious call to prayer. They clanged the harsh, cruel call to war. Hammers pounded the tocsin. Every able-bodied man and boy obeyed the call to arms. The Kingdom of Piedmont was invaded.

Nothing could stop Napoleon on his victorious march through Europe. Not contented with the conquest of France, Napoleon planned to rule an Empire. A great admirer of Caesar, he imitated the Roman strategy and even improved it. Wishing to take his adversaries by surprise, thousands of trees were felled, and out of these were hollowed sleds. 50,000 soldiers 5,000 horses with 500 cannons and ammunition were hauled up the great Saint Bernard's inaccessible Pass. In less than ten days, before word could reach the Piedmontese, Napoleon and his men slid down the snowy pass to victory. The surprise attack was phenomenal. Nothing like it had been heard since the days of Hannibal.

Poor Papa Occhiena and his compatriots - how they suffered! The years of plenty were over. Lean years came knocking at their door. Their melodious church bells were silenced. The enemy seized the bells, then needlessly melted them down for cannon fodder. Fertile fields were laid to waste, women were violated, cattle slaughtered by starving soldiers, houses burned or confiscated. A land of milk and honey became a valley of tears. The tramp of marching feet were heard by night and day. No one was safe. The neighboring towns were blown to bits. The battlefields existed from north to south, from east to west.

Piedmont happened to be a kingdom ruled by a king. The peninsula bounded on one side by the Adriatic Sea and on the other by the Mediterranean, in later years was to become a united Italy. In 1794 there were duchies, kingdoms, even republics, each independent. Some in times of danger being allied with Austria, called upon Austria for help. This was the case when Napoleon marched into Piedmont and Lombardy. The inhabitants of Milan appealed to the Emperor of Austria for assistance. He in turn asked the Tzar of Russia for troops.

Soon Piedmont became a sort of melting pot for varied nations. The French were fighting not only the natives but Austrians and Russians. The rich plains of Piedmont and Lombardy were overrun by soldiers of every nationality. Nothing stopped Napoleon and his victorious army.

Finally a great Russian strategist, General Suveroff beat off the Napoleonic army in Lombardy. The little nations that had been invaded could release their soldiers who took time out to work in their fields, to harvest crops, to prepare for the future. Two years of grace were accorded, two years of peace for these people of the foothills. There were rumors of far off conquests, of a whirlwind invasion all the way to Moscow. One after another, the capitals of Europe fell like ninepins. The little Corsican general had bowled the nations of Europe out of existence. They had toppled and Napoleon stood conqueror.

With the war being waged in other parts of Europe, the peasants of Capriglio felt safe. They chafed at the notion of having to support Austrian and Russian troops trapped in their midst. There were many deserters, yet these men were allies, they would have to be fed and helped.

Not far from Capriglio was another tiny village - Marengo. Before any one could realize what had taken place Napoleon was back. With lightening speed he had attacked the Austrians and Russians on the outskirts of Marengo. The battle fought there became one of the greatest in history. But in Piedmont and Lombardy there was much weeping for the two-year armistice had ended, war once more enveloped the countryside.

Papa Occhiena came back from war when Margherita was only twelve years old. During his absence she had tried so hard to take his place. There was little time for fun or laughter. Times were far too serious. To survive, work was of paramount importance. To keep from starving, the fields had to be tilled and cared for from dawn to twilight. If troops trampled the grain, or ruined the harvest, everything had to be started all over again. The real farmer never acknowledged he was licked.

There is really very little known about this child, Margherita, who in later years was to have such an influence on the lives of young people. Only one instance is brought to light about this period after Papa Occhiena had come back from war. He was determined to salvage as much as he could of the grapes. The vineyard was at a distance from the farm. He yoked together a pair of oxen that his family had managed to hide with different neighbors. Papa Occhiena was convinced that though much of his crop had been stolen, there would be sufficient to provide a little new wine for the cold months ahead. With a little wine and a very little polenta, body and soul could be kept together. Thus another winter could be weathered.

Though Margherita had two older brothers, she was the prop and mainstay of her parents. When they went off to the vineyard, it was this industrious child that shouldered the burdens about the house. To her had been confided the care of the younger ones, as well as the corn, which on the morrow was to be taken to the miller and ground into corn meal. At that moment women and children appeared in public. There had been a lull in the fighting, so they could go about in comparative safety. As a rule it was not wise or prudent to be seen alone with strange troops in the neighborhood. French soldiers proved to be no respecters of the weaker sex, nor in reality, were the Austrian allies any better. The simple, honest country folk had learned the cruel lessons taught in war - every man for himself - first come, first served. No woman was safe unless escorted by a male member of the family. So until then, they had been forced to go in hiding. Now that things were quieter, some ventured out alone.

Vivacious Margherita Occhiena had organized her brothers and sisters. They had been up since early dawn. As was customary in that section of the countryside, the ears of corn after being husked were strung together and hung on the south side of homes or barns. In order to protect their crop from being pilfered, they had hung high under the eaves to dry, in comparative safety, their winter supply of corn. Hundreds of golden ears had ripened. Margherita and her co-workers had scurried up and down ladders working till their reddened hands almost bled. All the precious kernels now lay in sheets for a final drying in the noonday sun. It was Margherita herself who used the rice broom to sweep first one side, then another, removing the last vestige of dampness. For damp corn would mould and nothing was worse than mouldy tasting polenta!

Once bone dry the golden kernels were shoveled into hampers to await their delivery next day at the millers. The ripened grain stood in neat rows, basket after basket waiting to be taken down the hill. Each child assisting Margherita breathed a prayer of thanksgiving. Yes, there would at least be food during the long wintry months, no one could take from them what was theirs.

Though only barely twelve, Margherita kept a vigilant look out. Down the steep hillside ran a road, that, like a white ribbon wound its way in and out through the pleasant valley below. She was hoping her parents would come home sooner than expected. This corn was a tremendous responsibility. She wanted to make perfectly sure that nothing unforeseen would happen after the months of hard work and patient waiting. Suddenly the little face, burned to a biscuit brown by the sun, turned ashen. The blue eyes peered anxiously into the distance, as on tip-toe she craned here and there as if to see all the better. A cry of dismay held the little ones breathless as they watched their diminutive sister. Then as if possessed by some fearful energy, she turned and shouted orders. --"There are troops below. I can't distinguish to what army they belong. Hurry, for a cavalry contingent is heading this way. We must get the corn out of sight." The children struggled, pushed, and pulled the baskets into the house, and just in time. The door slammed closed and the last baskets of grain disappeared, with all the little ones vanishing, leaving Margherita alone on guard.

All of this took place so quickly that by the time the galloping horses came into sight, Margherita had no alternative. She had to act as if nothing unusual had happened. She scattered the ripened kernels, then turned and swept them over and over, in the sun to dry. Rice broom in hand she knew what would happen. The corn would be confiscated. There had been no time to bundle this supply away.

A dozen soldiers on horseback headed towards her farm. The terrified children recognized the uniform of Austrian cavalry. Now she was glad she was alone. She preferred to face the men by herself. The little ones might have been indiscreet. Praying for guidance the child leaned heavily against her broom.

It was hot, so very hot that afternoon as she mopped the sweat from her brow. Her drab brown gown reached to her ankles. Her black braids stood out as if they had been strung on wire. Margherita kept moving her lips. Her beloved Madonna would surely help and straighten things out so that no one would be suspicious of the harvest under their eyes. The clatter of hoofs came nearer - nearer. The Austrian riders reached the top of the hill. Then they looked around as they held back their mounts to reconnoiter in front of the unpretentious Occhiena farmhouse.

On seeing the child the men commented: "What a fine girl." They watched her for a moment as she swept from one side to another her golden kernels. Then giving reins to their horses, they cantered toward a neighbor's barn. They dismounted under a pine grove, throwing the bridles over their horses heads, and wearily fell on the ground, while the horses roamed free to graze where they could find fodder. Scenting the fresh corn the famished animals headed for the Occhiena farm. They quickly trampled underfoot the carefully garnered grain.

Terrified at the havoc wrought to her remainingcorn Margherita shouted loudly. All her efforts to drive away the horses failed. She took her broom. Nothing happened. The half-exhausted soldiers merely laughed at her sorrow. They made no effort to call off the animals.

Crying in despair the child rushed for a pitchfork. With all the strength she could muster, she attacked and prodded the horses. Finally, terrified at the fury of the attack, the horses stampeded toward the valley.

The Austrian soldiers had merely laughed at the misery of the helpless child. Now seeing their mounts had galloped away, they cursed and raged. Forced to run down hill in an attempt to retrieve their horses, peace once again settled on the hilltop of Capriglio.

Late that afternoon as the sun was setting, the sound of lumbering oxen could be heard. The creaking of a primitive two-wheeled cart hauled by two huge white oxen came slowly into sight. Papa and Mamma Occhiena returned with a rich prize, golden muscat grapes stacked high. Margherita was the first to throw herself into their arms. Great was her relief to learn they were unharmed. Then she told them of the near tragedy. Had the Austrians ever suspected there was so much grain about, they would have ransacked the house and confiscated the corn.

Far into that night the entire Occhiena family toiled. The fresh grapes could not wait till morning, they had to be crushed at once. There was rejoicing midst the treading, for Papa Occhiena knew his children would have a plentiful supply of wine to tide them through the winter. Thanks to the courage shown by his little daughter, there would be ample polenta!

This same Margherita who as a child showed such wonderful courage became a dependable young woman. As she grew up she was extremely popular, for to know Margherita was to love her. From her parents she had acquired a deep spirit of piety. Though none of the Occhienas had been rich according to worldly standards, their greatest treasure was their spiritual heritage.

Blessed with a sunny disposition, Margherita was one of those privileged - p4 v1 characters who was never moody or dissatisfied with her lot in life. Contented with her fate, with her parents, with her simple home, she longed for nothing else than the Will of God. Divine Providence had been good to her, she in turn was faithful to the daily, humdrum duties that came her way. Each moment, each day was a God-given opportunity. She radiated joy.

Everyone talked about the Occhiena daughter. She was a much coveted personage by the neighbors who each in turn hoped to attract her attention. They had sons or nearby relatives looking for a good wife. In Margherita they would be assured of stability, of a wife that was gifted with rare talents. Such type wives were rare. No precious gold or earthly treasures were as priceless as an industrious, serious minded, deeply religious wife. Someone to keep the husband happy, bring children into the world, then care for the head of the house, the children and cattle, feed and nurse man and beast in health as in sickness.

Pretty Margherita paid no attention to the compliments that came her way. She had no outside interests. Her home and her parents and her brothers occupied all her time. Though she had had no schooling, she had a know-how that was all the more amazing for one who could neither write nor read. For one as attractive as Margherita, Sundays became more and more difficult to cope with. In the country it was customary after Sunday Mass to congregate outside the church door. Here the younger generation exchanged chit-chat and village gossip. The boys and girls paired off, they went in groups to neighboring villages to look up friends or carry on a harmless flirtation. The day was spent in cheerful company midst fun and laughter.

Margherita cared little about what others thought of her, still less what they said of her. Their flattery or their criticism mattered not at all. To her, Sunday was truly a day of rest. This was her one occasion to spend a few hours with her beloved parents. A day of rejoicing within the intimate family circle.

On week days Margherita could be counted on to do a man size job in the fields. She was one on whom her father could depend to carry out the most minute instructions. She could plow, sow, reap and pitch hay like the rest of her family. Of her own volition she offered to replace her mother on wash day. It was Margherita who took upon herself the strenuous task of bending all day over the bank of the stream. She knew where the smoothest stones could be found, then used them as washboards. Though the icy, glacier water turned her hands blue with cold, she never hesitated to perform her duty well. Once soaked and rinsed, then the laundry was beaten till it was clean. The near-by bushes were used for bleaching the wash, till it became as white as the distant snow on Mont Blanc or Monte Rosa.

Feast days were legitimate excuses for a holiday. Nothing made the Piedmontese happier than to sing and dance. Any excuse was used, either a religious celebration or a harvest festival. There was a holiday to mark the closing of the vintage season, when peasants with pockets well filled with cash, generously went out wife hunting. They felt they could afford a partner. After the Epiphany came the spring festivals. Unable to hold back till Easter, there were the three days of riotous merriment to mark the Shrove-tide season.

Margherita, being popular, was invited to join in the merrymaking. Invariably she found some excuse, for in reality these celebrations were considered neither safe nor proper for the young unmarried maidens. The church frowned upon all types of dancing; which was fraught with moral dangers, and invariably led to disastrous results. The clergy insisted that drinking in public and dancing in the market place should not be tolerated for the unchaperoned. What was befitting for married couples, was definitely out of bounds for single maidens. Besides the country roads were deserted, unsafe after dark. Year after year the words of warning were disregarded. Some of Margherita's closest friends and relatives succumbed to the temptation to join in the festivities.

No matter how pretty the girls looked in their lovely, long festive skirts, Margherita would only shake her head. Nothing would induce her to change her mind. The boys would use any excuse to elbow their way through the crowd, just to be near the general favorite. Yet, she would shake her pretty head of black hair.

Tactfully she tried to remind them of the Sunday's sermon. "Those who choose to enjoy life with the devil will not in the end be happy with Christ for all eternity." Once in a while, some girl hearing this admonition would slip away from the crowd. Touched by grace she would return home to meditate on what Margherita had said. There were the others, who would laugh all the louder, because she had paid attention to the Padre's sermon. Carefree, they rushed away, only to regret their folly later.

There was something so distinguished in her make-up, that she often passed for one of the more cultured Piedmontese. She spoke so charmingly, that even the more vulgar respected her. She kept her place and kept everyone at a distance. Try as they might, they could not induce her to even join them in an innocent country walk. Her vivacity held everyone spellbound. With charming banter she explained that she had already had her walk. Was not Murialdo seven kilometers away? She had walked to Mass and back again, why should she go out again? Besides, her parents were home, it was high time she relieved them of their responsibility of minding the babies or feeding the cattle. There might even be a little family fiesta, a get together which Margherita was so expert in arranging.

Margherita insisted in no uncertain terms, that she intended to remain single. No one believed her. How could such a pretty, talented woman turn down marriage? The more persistent wife-hunter tried to trap the girl. into accompanying him to Sunday Mass. Once this was openly done, it would be difficult to back down. Besides no young woman would be seen or could be seen in the company of any man without everyone talking about an impending marriage.

Margherita was elusive. She had no desire to become a source of village gossip. She kept her distance, refrained from being seen with any man, and in no uncertain terms openly declared her intention of remaining single. Finally it became obvious that she was not called to the religious life, that she intended devoting the remaining years to helping her parents raise the younger members of the family. Both father and mother suggested she marry. Marriage was the accepted pattern for those able. Margherita persisted in turning down all opportunities for a simple flirtation.

Some of the over confident suitors were jealous. Annoyed at their failure, they became anxious to trap Margherita. Like proud cocks they strutted on Sundays to the Occhiena farmhouse. They waited at the front door vying with each other as to who would escort her to Sunday Mass. There was little Margherita could do but insist that it was her custom to go to Mass alone. A bevy of determined protests proved she had failed to convince any of the would-be male escorts. With innate courtesy so characteristic of all her actions, she walked a little faster. Yet her cavaliers kept up the quickened pace. Tucking up her skirts a little higher than usual, she started on a double quick trot, which soon became a run.

At first her male escorts enjoyed the fun of keeping up with her. There was much laughter and cheerful banter. These happened to be the very men, who as a rule made themselves notorious by their absence from Sunday service. Soon what had seemed amusing, became ludicrous, even painful. The would-be escorts tired. Keeping up to this athletic young woman was impossible if they wished to maintain dignity. Sheepishly they lost step, then gradually disappeared.

Margherita also found another manner of eluding these would-be wooers. She slipped out of the back door far ahead of church time. The group of preening males waited in vain. Their lady friend just never turned up. When they inquired as to the reason for her absence, they were informed by the head of the Occhiena household, that Margherita had gone to the early Mass. Little by little the interest of would-be suitors waned. The final climax came when Zia Ellena came to her rescue. This old, weather-beaten aunt lived in the same village. None of the younger generation enjoyed escorting Zia Ellena, she was known for her sharp tongue. Margherita trying it several times, found to her great consolation that Zia Ellena provided a bulwark of protection. Zia Ellena might be shrivelled with age, she might have crooked legs, a bent back and a snail's pace but she had a weapon that was useful. Her pretty niece gladly escorted her to Mass. Arm in arm they walked to Murialdo. Zia Ellena's scathing remarks and piercing gaze kept the would-be gallants at a distance. They had no desire to tangle words with someone who said just what she thought. From then on, thanks to Zia Ellena, Margherita was never again troubled by the male population who learned to leave her alone.

For Margherita Occhiena time vanished as if on wings. She had been born April 1st, 1788 and was already twenty-three years old. Yet she was just as adamant about her resolution of maintaining her status of single blessedness. She paid no heed to any of the rumors or predictions about her future. She was neither worried nor concerned about being an old maid, quite contented, she preferred to leave herself entirely in God's hands. Whatever He wished or planned made her happy. Neither bitter, nor narrow-minded, she had become the village consultant. All the newly-weds came to her for advice. Margherita was the one who usually assisted the brides with their wedding preparations. She even helped with the problems confronting them, when they moved into their new households.

Ever since she had been a little girl, she had preferred going to Mass at Murialdo. Though the church was seven kilometers distant from her village of Capriglio she felt she could pray there with fewer distractions. She was far enough from home to escape the prying eyes or cocked heads of those who watched every movement.

When she took her place on the gospel side reserved just for women folk, she usually knelt next to another devout little woman, whom she gradually came to know. Mrs. Bosco, a peasant like herself, lived on the outskirts of Murialdo, in Becchi, a tiny hamlet consisting of eight huts. For several years the young mother had been accompanied by a much awake, well-mannered little lad, who as he grew older proudly took his place with his handsome father. The men had the epistle side of the church reserved for their use.

Anthony lived with his parents on the uppermost part of a ridge called Becchi in a poor cottage in the midst of a shady grove of tall cypress trees. Not only had Margherita met the Boscos at Mass, but also on her weekly trek to the market town of Castelnuovo d'Asti. Once her older brothers had married, she had refused to take second place. It was now her turn to shoulder responsibilities. This she did with ability and grace. She would yoke the beautiful white oxen with their great imposing horns to the rickety cart. Every Thursday she would head towards the market-town of Castelnuovo d'Asti eight kilometers away. She was accompanied by a much younger brother, who would proudly hold the reins, while she attended to the shopping. Depending on the season of the year, she would trade her corn, wheat or surplus grapes or even wine for needed commodities. When money was scarce, she would get the required cash with which to pay the taxes.

Long and tiresome were the eight kilometers that led from her village to the medieval town of Castelnuovo d'Asti. In winter icy winds blew across the valley. In summer the same road was hot and dusty. From Capriglio it meant a difficult climb of four kilometers uphill all the way to Becchi. This was the half-way mark, the dividing line. From there on it meant down all the way, winding through fertile plateau land.

From the Becchi hilltop stretched a gorgeous landscape. Each inch of soil was carefully planted. There were colors of every kind, dark and light greens, yellows, mellow golden, and ugly brown. The earth looked like a well carpeted floor. The loveliness of the landscape changed according to the seasons of the year. In spring the verdant fields were outlined by the streams and bright green willows or mulberry trees. During the height of the summer the plain became a sea of gilded wheat that rustled and billowed in the wind.

Castelnuovo d'Asti could be seen in the distant right hand corner. An important market town and parish center of four thousand souls with countless outlying villages dependent on it. The Duomo was hardly imposing, a flat building with its dome-shaped cupola. Yeteveryone had to come there, for into its parish registry had to be recorded the names of all who were christened or married.

The public road from Capriglio via Becchi led into the lowland. Because an old right-of-way had been put into force, the few acres that belonged to Francis Bosco had been cut in half. The dusty thoroughfare passed within a few feet of his front door. Of course there were inconveniences, as well as advantages. Had it not been for this dirt road, the inhabitants of the Becchi hamlet would have been totally isolated from the rest of civilization. Situated as they were atop a steep. mountainous hill, their poor little hide-out would have been totally inaccessible.

Margherita Occhiena on her way to or from market usually halted at Becchi. Invariably as she came to a halt, the little Bosco lad would rush out with a bucket of water for the beasts of burden. She always had a bright penny to recompensate him. Anthony would fake over, while the women-folk greeted each other.When the weather was propitious old Signorina Bosco would be found sitting in the doorway. Margherita would stop to exchange greetings. The young wife, Maria Bosco, would rush out from the cottage. Nothing pleased her more than a visit, no matter how short. She would smilingly say: "I've brought you wine to cool your thirst."

Margherita liked this family, they were poor, but so simple, so unpretentious. Nonnina as everyone called grandmother Bosco, was a confirmed invalid and septuagenarian. During the warm summer months she would sit out in the open carding wool. Though she rarely moved she knew the time of day from the bells of the goats coming up the hill with their swollen udders. Their hurried stampede told her it was milking time. Sometimes she would watch the scattered flocks of sheep quietly grazing in the distant fields. All day long there was a procession of placid oxen. Some passed so close that their flies settled on her hands and face.

Nothing amused Nonnina more than seeing how the quickly moving loads of hay or huge twin baskets weighed down with brushwood ambled up the steep hillside. She would usually look twice, thus making sure her eyes had not deceived her, for in the distance these self-propelled loads resembled spooks. Then sooner or later she would realize that the nimble legs and tiny hoofs of minute donkeys had fooled her once again.

In good weather there was a daily trail of dust and dirt that had to be swept away. In rainy weather mud was a foot deep. Yet no one ever complained. The goings on of this twisting country road kept the old lady contented. There was plenty of activity, things to see and things to talk about.

Margherita long remembered the fateful year of 1811. During the later part of February she was rushing back before nightfall. It was unsafe to be abroad by dark. There had been a miscalculation about fodder for the cattle. She had hurried to town without even knocking at the Bosco cottage. On her way home there was snow on the ground. At Becchi, eight-year-old Anthony ashen with cold and red eyed, stood weeping by his cottage door. Margherita inquired what was the matter? The child shook his head. He told her his granny and mother were ill.

On seeing neighbors crowding into the house, Margherita promised Anthony she would be around next day to see if she could help. When she got home, she told her family the bad news. She was troubled and fearsome concerning the old lady. At seventy she would certainly not be able to face many more such bouts with the cold, cruel winter.

During the stillness of the night, with sound carrying far into the distance the chapel bell of Murialdo tolled. Everyone stopped to listen, to count, to pray. This was the annointing bell calling to prayer. Someone was receiving the last Sacraments. An hour later the bell tolled, loud and long. By its strokes the bell told the news that a woman of the parish had died. The pious countryfolk as they went to bed crossed themselves and prayed for the departed soul. Next day, great was the amazement of everyone. The seventy-year-old grandmother had survived, but Maria Bosco was dead. The peasant of Becchi was left a widower with an orphan son.

Whenever Margherita passed through Becchi she stopped long enough to bring the old Nonnina a little gift, either some minestrone or a potted geranium to cheer her during the long autumn days. Sometimes she even brought fresh eggs, especially when eggs were scarce and costly.

The old granny was talkative, glad to confide some of her troubles to one known not to indulge in gossip. She worried about her heart-broken son who seemed confronted with appalling problems. She explained how the cottage was much too small to warrant a housekeeper since there was no spare room. A girl from one of the neighboring homes ran in from time to time to cook and keep things tidy.

Francis was overseer for the rich Biglione family, prominent farmers who rented out their lands. Had he not been with them for so many years and were they not such close neighbors, she doubted if he would have kept his position. He was in the fields from dawn to twilight. He had no time for his family or home. The old lady shrugged her shoulders. Life indeed was hard. She herself had been a great source of anxiety to Francis. At sixteen when her husband died, her son had taken over. Unfortunately burdened with ill health, all his savings were spent on procuring medicines and doctors for her.

Her greatest source of worry was the grandchild. Poor little Anthony once so bright and happy had now grown bitter and morose. Sullen and unfriendly, he refused to greet Margherita who wondered what had happened. He made no effort to disguise his intense dislike of household chores. Constrained by circumstances to remain close to his sickly grandmother, he openly rebelled-refusing to be helpful. Ever since his sixth year, he had taken pride in following his father to the fields, in working side by side with the man he loved passionately. Now things had changed. He was tied to the apron strings of an old, sickly woman.

For Francis Bosco that year of 1811 was one of unforgettable pain and failure. Had his strong spirit of faith not sustained him, he could never have borne the burden which weighed him down. On the anniversary of his wife's death he had a Requiem Mass said for the repose of her soul. As was customary in a Catholic village all the friends and neighbors came to pray. They commented on how sick the poor man looked. Even his little boy Anthony was no longer the same nice mannered lad. He had become bad tempered and was besides unkempt and slovenly.

Francis Bosco was not a person to shy away from the truth. He realized how out of hand the situation was. It became imperative that he do something to bring about a change. He resolved that morning at Mass to take drastic steps. There was no alternative. He would have to look about for a wife. Yet deep down in his heart he sensed the search would be futile. How could he expect a decent young girl to come into his poor home? How many women would be willing to nurse a sick mother-in-law, and care for a problem child, and help him make ends meet? Yes, he had fully intended one day to buy additional land and become an independent farmer. Yet, what sensible girl would marry a man on mere supposition? He had nothing to offer. There was nothing to show for his years of hard work. All his meager savings had been eaten away by sickness. Life was precarious. He knew too well how poor he was.

There was also the other side of the problematic question. What would happen if the total stranger coming into the home did not fit into their pattern of living? What would happen if the second wife and step-mother proved to be an ill-tempered hussy trying to run their lives? Yes, oh yes, he knew there were plenty of girls of marriageable age and all were husband hunting, but how many of these would make suitable housewives? The more thought he gave the matter, the graver became the problem. Who was there really to fit into the picture?

With a very heavy heart, Francis returned home more depressed than ever. His mother broached the delicate subject. She felt it was high time that he took another wife. Someone who could run things and help him shoulder his burden. Besides Anthony needed a mother. Then she began to enumerate the women that came into her mind. Francis sadly shook his head. They were all absolutely incompatible. Then he confessed that he too had thought much about the matter. He had dreaded taking the step. He feared they would have to go on living as best they could.

Out of a clear sky, the old lady suggested: "Why not approach Margherita Occhiena? She is older than the rest, besides she has good common sense. Everyone knows she is one of the hardest workers in the countryside as well as being extremely religious." Francis looked up at his mother wondering if she had lost her power of reasoning. "Mother the qualities you list are admirable and apply to Margherita, yet everyone knows she will not hear of marriage. She has turned down the richest, the best men of the countryside. Besides she had made a laughing stock of the country flirts. No one in his right senses would think of approaching her much less asking her for her hand. If she turned down able, well qualified men, what chance have I?" The old lady insisted: "We may be poor, but somehow that young woman and I manage to get on very well. I like her. The more I see of her the more I admire her."

Her son listened quite incredulous. "You seem to know her quite well, yet you have not left this house in ten years." The old lady smiled: "We happen to live on the main highway that leads from her village to the market town. Weekly she has passed through here. Since our dear Maria died she stops in every Thursday to bring me a token of affection. We chat, we laugh, and we pray for each other. She is one of the finest women I have laid eyes on. She is not only beautiful to look at, but beautiful of soul. She is very, very close to God. I somehow feel that if you asked her, she would not turn down the opportunity to make herself generally useful."

Her son, with manly brusqueness brushed aside any further mention of Margherita. Yet next morning the old lady assuming her parental authority insisted that he listen to her. "All you have to do is go and see Margherita and present your request. I am convinced she will listen to you. Besides she knows how we live.

That is the one advantage of her having dropped in so often. There is not much about us that she does not know. She has seen our poverty. She knows what Anthony is like. Go my son and try. No harm can come of asking." Francis Bosco went not because he was convinced, but to please his persistent mother.

Signor Occhiena was surprised that Francis Bosco asked for him, even more surprised when he learned of his futile mission. He shook his head with finality. There was nothing he could do to change his daughter's point of view. He himself had given up trying. She was perfectly contented with her lot at home. Bowing low he showed the gentleman to the door. As if prompted by some inner voice, he made one more attempt. Explaining the situation, he pleaded that Papa Occhiena become his emissary. Would he mention the visit?

Though Francis did stop at the Murialdo church on his way back home. though he said a heartsick little prayer for guidance and help, he came back to his poor hut more despondent than ever.Whatever happened behind the closed doors of that Occhiena farmhouse was never known. Papa Occhiena took his wife into his confidence. Together they talked to their daughter. Whatever method of persuasion was used, it worked. Margherita who once could have had everything a girl could wish for now accepted the proposal made by the poor peasant of Becchi. He needed a wife and also a mother for his child. She would become the second Mrs. Bosco.

From then on things moved rapidly. So very fast that no one, even the most curious, had time to surmise or gossip. Quietly and without fanfare, fourteen months after the death of his first wife, Francis Louis Bosco and Margherita Occhiena knelt in the sanctuary of the Capriglio chapel. He was a ripe twenty-eight. She was already twenty-four when on June 6, 1812 they became man and wife at the Nuptial Mass. The only ones who assisted at the marriage ceremony were intimate members of both families.

Before nightfall of the eventful June day Margherita moved into the Becchi household just as if it were a normal occurrence for her to have done so. On her wedding day she had become wife, mother, and nurse to the three members of the Bosco family.

Chapter2

The Bosco Family

Overnight it seemed as if a miracle had taken place. Everyone in the Becchi hamlet was excitedly talking about it. People came from as far as the village of Capriglio, and neighboring towns, to stand, stare, and gossip. The home of Francis Bosco was the center of attraction. For everyone had been well aware of the disaster that had struck his family in the past. Now there was good news. The widower had married one of the loveliest women of the countryside.

Strangely enough, the moment the blue-eyed, black-headed bride had crossed the threshold of the Becchi cottage things happened. People shook their heads. With as capable a woman as Margherita Occhiena in Becchi - there was no accounting of what changes would take place. She would make things hum! She would stand for no nonsense! Fortunate indeed was the man with such a wife at his side.

The freshly whitewashed walls exuded a note of friendly hospitality. From the second floor newly painted, green window boxes were brilliant with crimson geraniums. They enlivened the entire landscape. The cottage itself, with its long, sloping, red tiled roof stood out as distinctly as ever. It was visible miles away in the distant Montferrat meadowlands. The two brick chimneys of the erstwhile widower now puffed smoke, smoke rose and curled into the grey dawn at regular hours. The chimneys alone told the neighbors of the nearby country a tale of good fortune. At long last the Bosco hearth had a mistress. That mistress was keeping the home-fires burning.

The Bosco home during that long period of trouble had acquired a look of drab disorderliness. The burdens that had confronted Francis had been more than he could carry alone. Yet, on marrying again he had shown his great-heartedness and anxiety to please his new wife. He had repainted his home and once again it assumed its friendly air, the hospitality so characteristic of even the poorest Piedmontese peasant.

The inmates of that home were not alone the ones to benefit by this favorable change. All those who came into contact with the Angel of Mercy from Capriglio were to be the better for her presence. Margherita's enthusiastic cheerfulness was contagious. Her exuberant energy left its mark on all who had any dealings with her. Her radiating personality greatly enhanced her popularity.

The very first to benefit by this transformation were the inmates of the Bosco household. The unselfish bride sensed the needs of each individual. Francis himself became a changed personality. Now with Margherita at his side, he knew that at long last all would be well. His wife happened to be an extremely methodical, tidy, north Italian. To her no kind of work was difficult or impossible. Francis knew that he had really chosen well, nor was he ever to have a moment of regret for the choice made. He realized how Divine Providence had been on his side, for in spite of poverty there was at long last great happiness within his household.

Francis had struggled so very hard to keep his home intact. The times had been bad. The war had not helped matters. Yet by the sweat of his brow, he had managed to keep the wolf from his door. Never a shirker, he was unafraid of the most arduous manual labor. In order to feed his poor family, he had held onto two positions at one and the same time.

He owned a sizeable tract of farming land. He cultivated carefully every inch of his hilltop acreage which was dotted by thriving grape vines. He could afford to keep only two cows, a pair of goats, a small flock of sheep, and several pigs. Under the steep wooden ladder that led to the second floor bedrooms, he had a make-shift chicken-coop. A few hens were kept alive with barnyard worms. Their eggs were essential for his invalid mother.

Realizing that he could not keep his family alive with the produce off of his land, he became overseer for the Biglione family. Fortunately they lived only a few hundred feet away from his own humble cottage. The Biglione home was palatial contrasted to his poor little house. Yet their proximity had its advantages. Farmer Biglione had such faith in the managerial ability of Francis that he confided the running of his entire establishments to his poorer neighbor.

Margherita had no easy task. The young wife found herself with a family of six to feed. Her husband had two farmhands to help him, then there was the step-son Anthony and the kindly

grandmother. She made the sixth. The menfolk always had tremendous appetites. There were great obstacles confronting husband and wife, but not being one to run away from hard work.

Margherita felt they would gradually overcome the difficulties. Surely two heads and two pairs of hands were better than just one. Margherita had one great advantage, she was already an expert cook. With this all-important asset in her favor, she faced the obstacles confronting her in the very poor kitchen. Cooking meals with make-shift utensils, struggling with inadequate equipment required infinite patience. Charcoal considered so essential for the hearth was prohibitive for people in their circumstances. Wood was scarce and very expensive. There remained no alternative, but daily to make the rounds of the countryside and pick up the necessary twigs and fallen branches. Anthony, the step-son, from time to time joined her in a search for sufficient wood. They bundled together the pruned vines or gathered faggots carrying home the precious burden on top of their heads. The unending struggle to secure sufficient material for the fire became almost an obsession. No pine-cone or stump or root was wasted.

Once home Margherita had to tend the fire. A wood fire needed constant attention. The pot of polenta had to be carefully watched so that it neither burned nor boiled over. Polenta, the staple dish of every peasant, had to be constantly stirred. This thick cornmeal mush needed long hours of cooking. Margherita spent most of her days in the kitchen fanning the embers, coaxing the flame by blowing or with bellows. Every evening in time for supper the meal table had been scrubbed and scoured white. On that woodtable the thrifty housewife placed her wholesome, palatable dish which consisted of a medley of vegetables combined with Polenta, beans, and cabbage. The Bosco family was far too poor to afford meat more than once a month. Even then it depended on the kind of animal slaughtered. They usually had to be satisifed with a pot of lentil soup made tasty with plenty of garlic and onions and a sprinkling of homemade cheese. The only member of the family who had time to do any hunting was nine-year-old Anthony. He sometimes would snare a hare or bring home a string of tiny wild birds. Margherita would add this wild fowl and the herbs she picked from the meadows to enhance the stew. No one was quite as capable as Margherita in finding the much prized dandelion greens or during the rainy season in picking dainty mushrooms for which Piedmont was so renowned.

Breakfast, as well as luncheon required no immediate preparation. A loaf of homemade bread, a hunk of goat cheese with a clove of garlic and a fiasco of sturdy Barolo. This was a homemade red wine known for its bouquet and used daily, while the famous white wine called Asti Spumante was only reserved for great festivities, such as baptisms, marriages, funerals or sold at the market. Wine was as essential to a peasant's diet as was bread. Wine helped digest a meal of starch and protein. The earthenware jug or hollowed out gourd was a handy container easily carried. The drinking of plain water was simply unheard of. It would have been considered dangerous. Water was meant for outward ablution, the cleansing of oneself and laundry, but never to be used inwardly.

The most difficult problem which confronted Margherita was Anthony. The nine-year-old step-son was born February 3, 1803. Prior to the death of his mother, he had held a place of importance in the family being her only child and pet. After the sudden loss of his mother, he had become resentful and intractable. Margherita, very fond of children, now found herself confronted with a problem child He was becoming jealous, suspicious, prone to melancholia, a child whose feelings were easily hurt, showing resentment at everything He bitterly objected having to vacate his father's bed for the hayloft. Every peasant boy looked on sleeping there as an honor. Anthony's attitude was different. Yet there was no alternative, for the tiny Bosco cottage lacked sufficient space.

Margherita, always up at day-break saw to it that her menfolk had their food ration for the day. The men on their way downhill to the meadowlands of the Montferrat plain would contentedly nibble their breakfast. Margherita would watch them munching their white bread, she was grateful they could at least afford white flour. She stood at the kitchen door until her husband was out of sight, then waving a fond farewell turned to attend to the many needs of Nonnina.

When it was cold she made a fire in grandmother's tiny upstairs room. Nights would often be very trying for the old lady. Margherita sat at her bedside applying warm poultices, massaging aching limbs, watching her patient tenderly. Margherita was an expert' at brewing herbal teas, teas which would induce sleep, healing herbs containing a cure-all for many ailments, and she knew how to combine the various blossoms and ferns.

Grandma Bosco and Margherita had the same first name. The two Margheritas celebrated their name-days together. Though the bride was young, the other far in her seventies, yet these two women loved and understood each other as if they had been mother and daughter. During a period of fourteen years Margherita, the younger, would approach her mother-in-law for advice and gladly consult her.

Nonnina had been ill for years. She was virtually bedridden. Yet Margherita never by word or sign of annoyance let the old lady feel she was a burden. Margherita had a charm all of her own. When on market days, she went off to barter the baskets or wooden boxes made by her husband during the winter evenings, she would always buy some token of affection for Nonnina. She wanted Nonnina to know that she had thought of her.

No one could have been more delighted than Francis with his wonderful wife. When he returned home evenings tired from a long day's work, his eyes radiated joy. He saw that same joy reflected in the eyes of his aged mother. Their hearts were full. The smile on their lips reflected the inward peace and contentedness that Margherita had brought into their once saddened lives.

All day long, Francis would think of his dear, humble little wife. He never ceased to -marvel at her qualities, at her personality, at the depth of character or her exceptional spirituality. After a long day of toil he had a song on his lips, a prayer in his heart. He gladly hurried home to the vine clad hamlet of Becchi. From the smoke that curled into the evening air, he knew that his wife was busily engaged in cooking supper. As he opened the kitchen door, the fragrant minestrone boiling in the iron cauldron made him jubilant. Laughingly, he would embrace his wife, then rush to the fire to see what surprise she had concocted to satisfy his hunger.

After the meal, evening prayers were said before a crucifix. Then aged Nonnina and nine-year-old Anthony were sent to bed. Husband and wife sat up weaving baskets and Francis smoked a pipe of uncured tobacco. Margherita took great pride in the little plot near the chestnut trees, where she had planted tobacco for her husband. The Boscos had little time for growing or caring for tobacco, yet Margherita had begged for tobacco seeds from her brother. She herself tended this special plot, saw that it was well fertilized and properly cultivated. She finally cut the leaves and dried them in the shed.

Though Margherita never strayed far from her home, she was as busy as the men in the fields. In her cramped cottage there was much to attend to. Right next to the kitchen wall was the stable. The stable was her world. There she cared for the cattle, not only did she do the milking, but she bedded and fed and led the animals out to pasture. In Piedmont, no peasant would ever trust so great a treasure as a cow or sheep or even a pig out alone to pasture. Long years of war had made men distrustful not only of neighbors but of all strangers. Daily young women and old women and tiny children took their cattle to pasture. Hour after hour they stood right next to their animals watching them graze and chew their cuds. Never a moment was wasted, standing in fields, as far as eye could see were busy women and children keeping an eye on the cows or goats. Even Margherita Bosco joined this seething mass of humanity. She took her cows to pasture as religiously as people of another nation would take their children to school. During the spring of 1813 Margherita was no longer making socks but baby clothes. For her that Lenten season was not one of penance but of great preparation. That Easter Margherita hoped to present her husband with a present, be it boy or girl, whatever the good God would send would satisfy them both.

Every late winter afternoon there was a pause in Margherita's day. She would rest a bit during that in-between period, when dusk is not darkness and darkness begins to drop its mantle of obscurity over the landscape. She would leave the cooking preparations to close the cottage shutters. The fog would be kept out, the night less awesome. Standing at her windows she would breathe a prayer of gratitude for the starry sky above. Across the valley she glanced to the house where she was born, there too, she saw light. She knew her fond parents were at home, for Becchi and Capriglio were a mere stone's throw away. Had it not been for the deep valley of pastureland between them and that each was situated on a steep hill, they would have seen far more of each other. Yet Margherita had no regrets. She could not have been happier nor could she have found a lovelier spot to live in.

Chapter 3

New Arrival

April 8, 1813 was a day of tremendous rejoicing. Into the poor Bosco family came a tiny infant. Out of, thankfulness for the help given them by St. Joseph whom they had invoked, they christened the child Joseph. Had St. Joseph not been good to them? Had he not found Francis a wife? Had he not brought financial aid?

Margherita's dowery had enabled them to refurnish much of the household linen, and now after a year of unbelievable happiness had he not sent them another token of God's affection - a son? In the years to come, the gentle, contented baby would be a cause of joy. Joseph would never set the world on fire. Yet by the combination of qualities, those of the head of the household, and the kindly, understanding heart of his mother he would endear himself to all. Joseph would be known for his stability and dependability. In times of trial it would be Joseph to whom Margherita would turn. His meekness and serenity would unravel the harm done by the step-brother Anthony. As an infant, Joseph would be the pride and joy of his mother. He would compensate for the suffering the older son already brought into her life. Anthony began to show how selfish, how harsh, how uncompromising he was at an early age. He refused to conform, he would always rebel, and eventually after splitting his family he would lead his own life, going his own way.

For the peasants of Piedmont there began a new era of worry. The Napoleonic Wars were at their height. The self-appointed, and the self-proclaimed Emperor had become the greatest military strategist in modern history. All of Europe suffered as a result of his subjugating first one country, then another. Taxation was levied so as to meet the expense of war. Then came the annexation of Piedmont which ruined one of the richest farming people. They all found themselves paupers, robbed to the right and robbed to the left.

Not satisfied with military conquests, intoxicated with new victories in Austria, Napoleon commanded that his generals seize the Papal States. Pope Pius VII protested. He even posted a Bull of Excommunication. He did all in his power to stop Napoleon. The enraged conqueror declared that from then on Paris, not Rome, would be the center of Christendom. He, Napoleon Bonaparte, would dictate the future policies of the Catholic Church.

Napoleon ordered his generals to arrest the Pope. They forced their way into the Quirinal Palace in Rome. They seized the aged pontiff. Like an ordinary prisoner he was taken to Savona, then ignominiously transferred to Fountainbleau. There on the outskirts of Paris he spent his five years of captivity - seeing from time to time his conqueror, who ranted, raged, and tried to force him to carry out his wishes. Failing, Napoleon began a period of violent religious persecution. He threw cardinals, bishops, and priests into jail for refusing to obey his orders.

The ailing and aged Pope was utterly helpless, even his mail was censored. He saw no one. Somehow he managed to sneak out of Fountainbleau Castle. He wished to start a crusade of prayer. He confided his cause, the cause of freedom and all of Christianity, to the Mother of God. Mary Help of Christians would come to their rescue. She would aid the Church. Ave Maria became their watchword. The rosary was to be said at all times by everyone and for ejaculation he recommended the invocation of "Mary Help of Christians."

The year after Joseph Bosco was born, 1814, word was passed around that all was not going so well with Napoleon. He was meeting with difficulties. In Russia he met with defeat. He had been obliged to retreat throughout the northern part of Europe. Then from the mouth of one European sovereign after another was heard the same cry: "Release Pope Pius VII. Release our Pope."

Napoleon had to obey. Pius VII was finally freed. He, was permitted to leave France at once and head for Rome. Travel was slow in those days. Communication was by means of horse and carriage. Being in the dead of winter with heavy snows in mountain passes, the aged Pontiff gave word to start immediately. One of the stopping places was Turin. Piedmont had to be traversed. The main highway cut right through the Asti country.

The rejoicing was great at Becchi when word came that the Pope would be in their neighborhood. He would change horses and rest at the village of Buttigliera, a mere three kilometers distant. The Pope's coming became a holiday. Peasants from every hamlet and village swarmed towards the highway. Everyone wished to pay homage to a man who had defied Napoleon, to a man whose religious convictions had protected their Church in times of persecution. They all wished to catch a glimpse of the Pontiff.

Margherita and her husband loaded a few sacks of hay on their oxcart. Then they took their children and made them as comfortable as possible. They knew the day would be a long one and it would be cold. Francis on reaching the planned destination would carry the baby. Like all processions, the wait would be tedious. Hour after hour they waited. Finally, the news of his approach was heralded by steeple after steeple ringing the good news. Bells everywhere proclaimed the passing of the Pope. For bells in those sad times to ring was a good sign. They had been silenced by order of Napoleon or confiscated and melted down for canon fodder. Bells turned up everywhere, hidden bells that had been put away in hay-lofts, dug in the ground, or in forests now were resurrected. They now echoed the good tidings. The expectant crowds lining the road elbowed closer. Soon their wait was rewarded when a cavalcade led by soldiers made a colorful procession. The gay carriages were bedecked with garlands and floral tributes. The thronging multitude grew more tense, it could not be controlled. The postillion bearing the papal coat of arms drove into sight. Men wearing the papal livery held back the four-in-hand, slowed down the horses.

The Boscos were as thrilled and awed as were the shouting, jostling crowds. Francis held baby Joseph tightly in his arms, he had a right to see as had everyone else. The shouts of Viva il Papa, viva il Papa, were yelled till people were hoarse. The coach came to a standstill. Then suddenly there was silence as the white-headed Pope raised his hand. Francis and his little family knelt with the crowd to receive the Apostolic Blessing. The postillion driver released his brake. The restless horses were off in a cloud of dust. The melodious church bells chimed joyful hymns. Men with lumps in their throats prayed, prayed that there might never be another war. That they might never hear the tocsin summon them to fight another battle.

Pope Pius VII on reaching Rome sent couriers throughout all Christendom. He invited all to join him in humble prayer of thanksgiving for his release and the ending of hostilities. He commanded that the 24th of May in that year of 1814 be solemnly set aside as a prayer day, that it be dedicated to the Mother of God.

The feast of Mary Help of Christians was instituted and Catholics were requested to honor her, to thank her, and above all to consecrate their homes and families to her. Mary had won for the Church a great victory without the use of arms. The simple invocation petitioning her to assist had at long last brought peace to Christendom. No one was happier than the simple Becchi housewife. Margherita had taken a great liking to this invocation. During the years of captivity she had often prayed to Mary Help of Christians.

Now that the Pope had requested special prayers and a feast had been instituted Margherita requested Francis to build her a shrine in honor of the Madonna. Daily in her kitchen the family would kneel before a deep niche hallowed out of the brick wall and whenever she could afford it, Margherita burned a vigil light.

Margherita was certain that since Our Lady had restored peace in Europe, she would also iron out their many problems. The year of 1815 really was a year of peace. Men at last felt secure, they realized they would no longer be called to fight distant wars. There was a sense of security in the knowledge that Napoleon Bonaparte was a prisoner on the Island of, St. Helena. He would no longer terrorize them.

The year in which Napoleon accepted defeat and ceased his revolutionary transformation of the European Continent, there was born another revolutionary character. One general had laid down arms, the other was opening his eyes for the first time in the humblest cottage of the Becchi hamlet. Napoleon had conquered by means of bloodshed and arms. The infant of the Bosco household would one day lead even greater generals, handle more men, send followers to distant outposts of the world and in the end encompass the globe. The peasant would lead men not by hate but by love and self-sacrifice. His disciples would never touch a gun, never use a whip, never inflict blows. They would by their preventive system - prevent wars. They would educate by kindliness, help-fulness, and equal rights for all men. For he would insist that the poorest child had just the same right to learn to read and write and work and advance as had the sons of princes and governors. This revolutionary was a soldier of Christ and not of men. This leader would start life where a Napoleon Bonaparte had ended. 1815 would bring about great changes - and those changes might be slow in coming - but they would start the day John Bosco was born.

The feast of the Assumption was kept in Europe with as much solemnity as was the great festive celebration of Corpus Christi. The women donned their brightest native costumes, the village girls their first Communion dresses. There were shrines beautifully decorated. The priest carrying the Blessed Sacrament would halt at these altars for the rosary and benediction. He would raise the monstrance to bless the kneeling throngs. After the great silence, the ringing of the bell, the flower-girls would strew rose petals, sodality banners fluttered in the breeze, the altar boys swung their censers midst clouds of incense. The procession was once again under way, only to stop at another altar.

Margherita Bosco knowing that the hour of her confinement was at hand had not joined the procession that formed at Murialdo. She had knelt in reverent anticipation outside her cottage door. There the meal table of her simple kitchen had been moved into the roadway. It stood in front of the house. Neighbors had helped decorate it with choice linens and laces. The lovely madonna lilies that only bloomed in August adorned it. Margherita had kept them for this august occasion. When the murmur of songs could be heard in the distance, when the chanting of the rosary became nearer, Margherita joined her prayers to those of the participants. As the priest raised the monstrance to bless her and the kneeling throng, she consecrated to Mary, the Mother of God, her unborn child.

That evening after the village clock of Murialdo struck midnight lights in the Bosco cottage were still shining. The midwife was busy. She finished washing the new-born baby and laid it in the arms of its father. The second baby of Margherita was also a son. The proud parents were to name it John Melchior. The Boscos considered that John was a special present of Our Lady, the Madonna of August had sent him to them. Ever after, little John's birthday was to be celebrated on the feast of the Assumption, August fifteenth.

In the Catholic countries of Europe no parent in their right senses would delay the christening ceremonies a single day. The quicker the baby was baptised, the surer they were that the stains of original sin had been washed away and that sanctifying grace possessed the soul. Besides, no one was sure if disease would not snatch the infant, for the mortality rate in new-born babies was very high.

Francis made immediate arrangements that his child should be christened as soon as possible. He sent messengers to the godparents requesting that they be ready to take the baby to the parish church on the 17th. Castelnuovo was where the ceremony was to be performed. Since the aunt and uncle were well off, they came with horse and carriage. Little John had his first ride along a road he was to know in later life with eyes closed.

The parish registry was signed on August 17, 1815 by Father Joseph Festa. He performed the ceremony and administered the sacrament of Baptism. The godparents were Melchior Occhiena and Magdalena Bosco. The baby was entered as John Melchior Bosco.

Chapter 4

PART 1 Hunger years 1816-1817

Though 1816 and 1817 were called the horrible Hunger Years, we are mainly concerned with the famine of 1816. People went about in rags, starving - always hungry. They spoke of the bad times in whispers. This is called the aftermath of war. The soil had not had sufficient time to recuperate. Lands that had been untilled produced no crops, or poor ones at best. To make matters worse, there had been a severe winter - frightful cold and a great freeze. The prices consequently rose. To make things still worse, during that same summer came a heat wave -heat such as has been unknown in the memory of man. The drought came to stay. People in great cities, and people in tiny villages all prayed for one and the same thing. They prayed that the rains might come, yet rain never came on the parched, scorched soil.

Wishing to appease the wrath of God, the faithful went on pilgrimages. They prayed in one sanctuary, then in another. People performed all kinds of penances thus hoping to attract the attention of a merciful Creator. Some tied ropes about their necks, others heavy chains. There were those who bore great crosses on their shoulders, walking great distances invoking Divine Providence to save their land of Piedmont, their farms, their children, and their fortune. The heat, that appalling heat, had been so terrible that even the blades of grass and leaves crumbled away as if scorched in a furnace. The crops withered in the parched fields. Without water - without rain - man had become utterly helpless. The caked, cracked, burnt soil became as useless as desert sand. Beggars of every description roamed the villages seeking food.

Many an evening Francis came home with unexpected company. Though he could really ill afford the expense, yet he never refused hospitality. When he met a person too sick from hunger to walk any further, then he would ask his wife to nurse him back to health. Francis knew he was poor, but he was better off than many a neighbor, he had at least a cow and she was a good milker. There was always milk to spare and cheese and butter. Besides, Margherita had a way of watering down the soup. She knew how to make it stretch.

On coming back to Margherita and his aged mother, he would tell what he had seen. How he was saddened by the misery. How time after time he came face to face with death. Death stalked the once prosperous meadowlands. Now old and young lay dylng everywhere. How in the fields below, people had been found with dried grass stuffed in their mouths. Famished they had come to the country, but relief had come too late.

Francis had an unwritten law. No one was ever turned away who knock ed at his humble door. And Margherita found this a most pleasing duty, for she was charity personified. No matter how crowded the little cottage might be, she always found place for the newcomer, even if it meant bringing her own corn-husk mattress to the kitchen floor.

Francis was convinced that if he would surmount the evils of the postwar years, he would eventually be able to provide for his little family the things he wished them to have. He tugged all the harder at the reins of his slow plodding oxen, as they dragged the heavy plow into the rich soil of Piedmont. He knew that peace would bring prosperity. War had ravaged the country. He now cultivated, then sowed every inch of his land fully expecting plentiful harvest. No one knew better than he, what havoc had been done to the crops of the summer before by the months of drought. Yet, with the broadmindedness of a peasant who could see the over-all picture, that period of disaster was over. On all sides as he gazed about him, he saw nothing but lush greenness. The willows by the river's edge would provide him with plentiful material for future basket weaving. The foliage of mulberry trees would keep his silkworms contentedly feeding throughout the summer. His vineyard and the vineyards of his master gave no cause for discontent. They had indeed been blessed by Providence, for their vines had been on the sheltered side of the foothills. The late frosts had by-passed them and left them unharmed.

Later in the day, Francis switched from ploughing to pitching the new mown hay. He was bare to the waist. Though it was only the beginning of May, his skin was as brown as if the summer sun had scorched him for months. The sirocco, a hot, dry, dust-laden southeast wind had been blowing for several days, the heat was almost unbearable. The sirocco usually came in early spring, then it was most welcome because it drove away the snow. With snow on the ground the sirocco could do no harm, now it was a dangerous thing, it might damage the tender shoots sprouting out of the moist soil.

Francis sighed. Though he loved the soil passionately, there was always an element of risk. The farmer had to be willing to gamble all he had, so as to make a success of every undertaking. It required all his energy, all his money, all his seeds in order to plant an even bigger crop. That week he had been most fortunate. He had been able to mow the first growth of hay without mishap. This was always the best, for it contained a wealth of spring blossoms and clover and choice grasses. Yet here again was an element of risk.

Every farmer knew that the sirocco would either end in rain or bring the much dreaded thunderstorm and hail. This meant that Francis and his farmhands had to hurry in order to be perfectly sure that all the dried hay would neither be blown away nor caught in the expected storm. That evening before nightfall it would have to be pitched into the hayloft.

Margherita high on her hilltop pastureland had sought the shade of a sycamore tree. She was preoccupied about her husband. The severe winter, with its unusually long cold spell had retarded the spring sowing. Francis was exhausted from worry and long hours of overwork. She wished the heat had not come so soon. She pitied him harvesting hay on such an afternoon. Margherita was forced to mop her brow. It was hot, very hot. As she gazed into the horizon she wondered if summer was premature? Was the heat a harbinger of bad news? Would there be another drought that summer? If so, would any of them be able to survive? Margherita anxiously made the sign of the cross, as if trying to brush away an evil thought. She tried so hard to pray as fear gripped her heart. She found herself quite powerless to shake off a mood of great depression. A strange sense of uneasiness permeated the atmosphere.

With the sirocco liable to turn into a storm she hurriedly led the lowing cow with its new-born calf back to the barn. The shepherd dog, Barri, kept a watchful eye on the goat and sheep. The grunting sow about to farrow wallowed after them. On the way back from his work, Francis met Signor Biglione. The rich peasant who hired him was pleased to learn his hay was safe inside the barn. He looked at the skies questioning the advisability of doing any further planting until further rains came. Before they parted, he told of having found a barrel of wine in the cellar about to spoil. It would require immediate attention. He felt it advisable, due to the change of weather, to decant its contents into demijohns.

Never one to complain, nor spare himself, Francis went immediately down into the damp and icy cellar. Being a man of robust health, who had never been sick an hour of his life, he took no precaution against the sudden change of temperature. The shirt he had put on was soaked with perspiration. He had paid no attention to that, nor the fact that he was very tired, as he worked by candle light for several more hours bottling the wine.

On reaching home, his wife was shocked to see how tired he looked. He was apparently far too sick to eat. He excused himself, then went to bed. That night he was seized with violent chills and high fever and next morning he was far too ill to move. Margherita, who so often had cared for the infirm, at once sent for the physician. Unfortunately, the only available one was at Castelnuovo, five kilometers away. The Signor Dottore knew Margherita. If she sent for him, the case must be very urgent. He hurried, but by the time he finally arrived it was too late. The doctor examining Francis shook his head. Though the patient was in the prime of life, a young man, there was no hope. He diagnosed virus pneumonia from which Francis would never recover. Even Margherita, heartbroken as she was, after a few days abandoned all hope of recovery.

Humanly speaking all that could be done had been tried. Now there remained nothing more to do but send for the priest of the little Murialdo church. When he came he was to bring Viaticum and the Holy Oils. Francis wished to receive the Last Sacraments before it would be too late.

Margherita, who so often had prepared the dying to meet their Creator now could not contain her grief. She found it hard to resign herself to the Will of a God who saw all things and knew all things. She could not believe that her man who was such a brave, model Christian with fine ideals would be taken from her and her children at a moment when they needed him most. The inner conflict seemed more than she could bear. Margherita, as she prepared the Altar in that tiny upper chamber, wrestled with God and with her soul, pleading that the Almighty would spare her husband.

In the silence of that sultry 12th of May afternoon, Margherita heard the Murialdo church bell toll its call to prayer. How well she knew its sound, the in extremis bells were pealing their call to prayer for the man dying in that parish. The small procession had formed rapidly led by cross-bearer and two acolytes carrying lighted lanterns. Another acolyte rang the sacring bell while the priest, covered with a stole, very reverently carried the Last Sacraments to the hamlet of Becchi, on the outskirts of Murialdo.

Great was the consternation of neighbors on realizing that things had taken a turn for the worse. People knelt on the road to pray as the priest passed by. No one would believe the rumors that Francis was dying, that he had not long to live. In that tiny, very tiny upstairs room where all three of the Bosco children were born Francis lay sick unto death. When the priest administered the Last Rites he seemed to be the only one fully resigned, accepting with peaceful serenity the sacrifice God was asking of him. With admirable Christian fortitude, buoyant withfaith and courage he consoled his weeping wife.

"Margherita mia, don't mourn me... see how good God is. Since I must die, it is He, who comes in person to take me to Himself on Friday, the very day of the week on which our Redeemer Himself died on the Cross for us. You must not weep, you must not sorrow." Then the dying man, as if thinking aloud, murmured with a smile on his lips. "How wonderful, how very wonderful! I too, I am thirty-three, I am the same age as Christ. His life ended when He

was young."

The only sound heard was the labored breathing of the dying man. Then in the distance, the chimes of the Murialdo church clock struck, one. . . two. . . three. Francis wearily opened his eyes, smiled faintly as he gazed deeply into the blue, sorrowful eyes of his wife. "Margherita, Margherita did you hear, it is now three o'clock. How good of God to call me to Himself, now, the very hour He died for me on the Cross. Have faith in God, great faith. Believe in Him, trust Him implicitly. Remember always that I confide to you all our dear children but very, very specially I confide to your care our baby, our youngest, our dear little John. Take good care of him for me."

These were the last words spoken by Francis. His work in life was done. His agony had ended. Sadly the Muraldo sacristan climbed the church steeple to ring out the sad news. The passing bell tolled loud, tolled long. Even strangers knew from the number of strokes that a man had passed away. People everywhere knelt or crossed themselves and recited the De profundis for the repose of his soul. Those who knew Francis mourned that a great member of the Becchi community had gone to God.

To the peasant, a simple people really wedded to the soil, death held no terror. Their faith was such that to them death was a beginning, death was a reward for years of toil. Death brought them Beatific Vision. There was the grief at parting, the sharp, cruel pangs of separation, but to a people who lived near to God and loved the soil, death was not evil - death was good. Mamma Margherita pulled herself together. A great peace came over them all. Her beloved Francis looked beautiful, so beautiful that she wanted her youngest to see him, just once more.

Margherita went to fetch little John who happily toddled up the steep stairs into the tiny room. The baby, for John was not quite two years old, climbed on the bed. On seeing his father with closed eyes surmised he was asleep. Margherita told her curly headed son to kiss his hand. But the brown-eyed boy had no intention of leaving his sleeping papa. He had come to stay with him.

Margherita wanted to pick him up and lead him away. He petulantly refused to move. "If papa does not come, John will not come." He began to cry, as he clung to a father he loved very passionately. Already then, John had a fiery temper and wanted his own way. Margherita burst into tears and sobbed: "Poor, poor little John. You no longer have a father. Papa is dead." She clutched the child to her and carried him downstairs.

As long as John lived he was to remember those words. Death and the meaning of death meant nothing. Yet the sorrow, the realization that his wonderful mother was weeping brought a sense of loneliness and fright into his childish heart that nothing would ever efface. His first conscious memory would always revert to this scene, one of bitter sorrow and grief.

Death plunged the entire Bosco family into deep mourning. Close upon this tragedy the grieving widow was to have other sorrows. No sooner was Francis buried than Anthony, barely fourteen years of age, caused trouble. That step-son would be a cruel burden to that kindly woman for the next eleven years. He would do all in his power to assert his authority. Even at that early age, Anthony made no effort to show his utter disdain for the weaker sex. He considered any woman totally unfit to make decisions. He bluntly informed Margherita, that being a child by the first marriage, he alone fell heir to the patrimony left by his father. As sole heir, the house, its contents, the cattle and all the land belonged to him. In no uncertain terms, he let it be known that any who shared his roof would have to work for a living. He would make no exception for either the very old or the very young. Neither little John nor the aged grandmother would be exempt. He had always looked at his Nonnina as an unnecessary burden, an extra mouth to feed, an invalid to care for. Now was the opportune moment to dispose of her. Babies were nuisances and time consumers, besides he had an antipathy towards little John. From his cradle days, even John was different, he had not been like other children. Lively, alert, cheerful and playful the curly-headed youngster had stolen every heart. Anthony was jealous. He had resented the attention centered on one who noticed everything and gave no one any trouble. This was Anthony's chance. He would either force them all to obey his wishes or he would force them out of the home which he now considered his.

Margherita required infinite tact and patience to bear with the arrogance of her oldest. To her, Anthony was not another woman's son, though he taunted her and refused from then on to even call her "mother," she treated him as if he really were her own son. She made absolutely no exception in her attitude towards him or her two younger children. She lavished on Anthony the passionate affection that Latin women have for their children. The three Bosco boys were always treated alike.

Margherita being a woman of determined character let Anthony know she would not stand for interference in her marital rights. She had certain obligations and his claim was illegal. They each had a share of the patrimony left by her husband. When the time came for division, she would see that he got his. Anthony and those few who had given him bad advice soon saw that Margherita knew her rights. Vitality such as hers could not perish. She had no intention of retiring from her newly acquired position as head of the Bosco household. Her courage, her energy sustained all the family in that hour of need. She alone would be able to hold that family together. She alone could save them from wreck. She alone could very easily have pushed aside her responsibility towards the sickly mother-in-law and the very difficult step-son. But during those early days of her widowhood and throughout her entire life, she never tired of hovering over that tiny family. By her grim determination, by her heroic self-sacrifice, and her unfailing spirit of prayer she would keep them all united. She would lay the foundation stones that every true mother must, so that each child in turn by becoming a good Christian and outstanding citizen would fulfill the destiny God had preordained.

Her robust constitution and her excellent health enabled her in that hour of need to carry on many and varied activities. She led the cow, or sheep, or pig five kilometers to the nearest market at Castelnuovo. She proved not by words, but by deeds that she could work just like a man. There was not a thing that she could not do, and do well. She cut the hay, ploughed, sowed, then reaped both the corn and the wheat. She tied the sheaves at harvest time and piled them just as high as did the menfolk. She transported grain by ox-cart to barns and was there to thresh and store the wheat. The hired hands complained. These men felt ashamed because they could not keep up to the work of this woman. The heroic little widow of Becchi wore them out.

She was the first to cut the hemp. She rushed home to bake the bread which kept them all alive. In mid-September she picked grapes and treaded out the fruit to make the wine. Margherita earned her living by doing all things well. She held firm to the helm, determined with the help of God to steer each of her children to safety.

PART II

All Alone

During that winter of 1817 things went from bad to worse. The bread-winner was gone. Margherita managed to exist as best she could with the meager resources at her disposalClose upon this family tragedy, which had almost wiped away the home, and Anthony's difficult temperament, came another midsummer drought. Rainfall for that region had been way below Rainfall was the key to success or failure. After several years of consecutive drought, the hills of Piedmont were burned to a biscuit brown, even the drought resistant cypress groves died, allthe crops - their sole resource failed. Famine stalked Piedmont.

Everywhere there was wailing and mourning.The cost of living soared. A bushel of wheat cost five dollars, while corn sold for four dollars. Margherita sacrificed all she had in order to obtain the necessities of life. Food supplies and clothing were exorbitant. She tried her best to keep her family from starvation. God was good. She always managed to find that she could share her bran with beggars. She stilled their cravings of hunger. She added a handful of bran to some peas, lentils, or just a few beans. This stretched the food and enabled them to continue their search for more nourishment.

During all her life, Margherita had never had to borrow. She was a woman able to forestall emergencies, being budget-wise she managed her household extremely well. In Piedmont it was customary for even reputable housewives to borrow from neighbors. Margherita had never had recourse to this procedure. Suddenly she found herself confronted with starvation. She now realized that she would be forced to borrow in order to save her children from famine. Her larder was empty. Her provisions had vanished. There was nothing left to barter with. When she did go to town on market day, she went empty handed. Formerly things had been very different. She had always come back home with the panniers that swung across the back of her tiny burro laden with produce. There were no groceries to be had for all the money in the world. Monev was worthless.

Margherita, pocketing her pride, humbly knocked at one door, then another. She asked her neighbors for a helping hand. Yet the same women, who year after year had borrowed and had never returned what they had come to get, now had nothing to give. They were powerless to aid her in her dilemma. Margherita went to see friends in Murialdo, but was unsuccessful. From there she went to her parents. feeling sure that in well-off Capriglio she would fare better. Nowhere was anything to be had. Famine stalked through Piedmont. There were even more dead about than the summer before!

Night after night, after prayers, Margherita would sit before her kitchen stove trying to console and comfort her children. They cried from hunger; they wanted food. She would explain to them that the God who gave was also the same God who had a right to take away. God provided everything they had, they still had a bed, a roof over their heads, land to till, trees to shade them, water to drink.

She wished her children to acquire a consistent spirit of faith which would weather all storms, a faith which would cling to God in spite of obstacles and even disaster. With the wisdom born of the soil, she explained how in a dry year such as Piedmont had endured, crops were bound to fail, yet with a weather break good crops would come again. They must never count on their own strength. They must pray to the Lord of the harvest that He hear their plea and send them rain. With the coming of rains there would again be food for all. Resignation, submission to the Divine Will of God, and an ardent faith, that was what God was asking of them. And that was what she insisted they learn.

While Margherita talked and mended, her youngest would sit cuddled in her lap. John found comfort in being close to her. His mother was so virile, so forceful that with her about he feared nothing, not even the pangs of hunger., The two older boys whittled at boxes, wove baskets, or made traps in the hopes of snaring on the morrow at least a hare. Then one fateful evening their mother broke the bad news. She prepared them for a tremendous sacrifice, when she informed them that Barri, their beloved shepherd dog, would have to go away.

There were bitter tears. They even promised not to grumble when they were hungry. Nor would they complain if there was not sufficient food. Margherita felt as badly as did her sons, for Barri had been her husband's faithful companion and pet. Poor Barri would have to leave. It would be quite impossible to feed five hungry people plus a dog. She had made the necessary provisions. Barri would have an excellent home with a relative in the distant town of Asti. He would always be sure of plenty of food and good care.

Anthony was given the duty of taking Barri to his new home. He was given the day off and carried out the minute instructions. Upon his return to Becchi, the boy's tear-stained face proved that even he who at times seemed so hard and indifferent to family life - had felt the parting with Barri as had the rest of the family.

Barely two days had elapsed when there was a familiar scratching at the kitchen door. Barri had walked all the way back by himself. Margherita, instead of being happy, seized a broom and chased him out into the yard. Instead of being frightened Barri merely licked her hands and frolicked gleefully with the boys. When she scolded he merely lay at her feet, looked longingly into her face with his expressive eyes. The three boys waited breathlessly. John could not resist clinging to his dog, his arms around his neck, he kissed and wept over the family pet.

The verdict about poor Barri's future was not long in coming. Even Mamma Margherita had a lump in her throat. "If human beings could only be half as faithful to their Creator as is this dumb beast, the whole world would be a better, nobler place to live in. Barri has been most loyal to us. He has traveled all night to come back home, to a very poor home, but to him it is home. As long as we can stay here, so can Barri." Barri remained. In spite of the famine and in spite of hardships, he lived to a ripe old age. Throughout their youth he was the constant companion of John and Joseph.

Things went, as had been predicted, from bad to worse. There was not another morsel in the house. Margherita had prepared a hot, watery concoction made by boiling barks of trees and adding ferns and herbs. This might provide a bit of warmth but could never sustain life. The kitchen shrine was dark. The Bosco's could no longer afford the luxury of an unnecessary candle. The shrine had a sprig of boxwood. That was all. There were no more flowers for the Madonna since even flowers had withered away for lack of rain. Everything about was dead, dried to parchment yellow by the heat, by the blistering sun.

Margherita looked at her darkened shrine of Our Lady, said an ejaculation to Mary Help of Christians, then held a consultation with grandmother Bosco. Nonnina agreed with her that the emergency was such that whatever money was left had to be turned into food at once. Margherita went to the kitchen spice cabinet. She pulled out one of its many drawers. Most of them were filled with aromatic herbs, but one held her fund of reserve money. Her dear husband had made this cabinet for her shortly before his death. It was as if he himself had told her to take her last savings and transfer them into food.

Margherita hurried to the home of Signor Bernard Cavallo. He had been her husband's trusted friend. She knew that if anyone could help, he would. She counted on his friendship to help her in her dilemma. She needed food, needed it urgently. Bernard Cavallo gasped: "It is incredulous. You ask for something that cannot be had. Prices are fabulous. Nothing can be bought except at the black-market." Margherita grimly replied: "I am willing to pay anything. It is now a matter or life or death. I must keep my children alive. We need staples. In another day or two it may be too late. My boys cry from hunger. I cannot bear to hear them whimper." She bit her lip. Her quivering hands handed over a large sum of money to the gentleman.

Bernard Cavallo then realized the urgency. There must be real danger for the plucky little woman to come to him with such a sum of money. As she explained it was the savings of her husband, she had hid them away for a rainy day. The storm had come quicker than she had expected. Margherita escorted him to the stable. There he saddled his horse, mounted it, and rode to the valley.

Bernard Cavallo spared neither his horse nor himself. He rode from village to town, from town to village. He had connections. He knew prominent men in business. Everywhere the same grim story, everywhere the same haggard faces. Market places were empty. The millers had no grain, even the shops all had their shutters locked. Money was worthless. There was nothing, nothing to be had or bought or traded. For two days he had rushed about in an effort to find food. Then he returned to Becchi.

The eager Bosco boys had been on the look-out for their friend. Signor Cavallo would bring them food to eat. All the money their mother had saved had been given to buy flour and corn and groceries. Now they would no longer be hungry. They rejoiced at the meals they would have. They would no longer have aching stomachs. They would no longer feel sick from hunger. The children were the first to see the horse and Signor Cavallo come along the Castelnuovo road. They could hardly contain their curiosity. They crowded into the kitchen - their eyes glued on his face.

Sadly, Bernard Cavallo told of his futile efforts. How he had tried every available lead. Neither his influence nor the money had produced any food. If Mamma Margherita could abide her time, he felt sure that his efforts would bring results. He had contacted distant friends, help would be forth-coming. Then, as he spoke, he handed over to the widow the sum of money she had originally given him.

Once Bernard Cavallo left their cottage there was panic. The boys cried aloud in anguish. All hope of survival vanished. The grim realization that there was nothing to alleviate their gnawing pangs sickened them. The emaciated children were famished. The brews concocted by their mother would no longer suffice. They had eaten the cow, the goats, the sheep, and even the piglets. The few remaining hens had been stewed. The three-week-old baby chicks were too young to produce a meal. There was nothing, nothing left. Margherita, looking at her poor children sighed: "We must not yield to despair. Your father on his death-bed told us to have faith in God. He will help if we only trust in Him and believe in Him. Let us kneel and let us pray that our Heavenly Father help us now."

They knelt, they prayed in silence, they were too exhausted for words. Then Mamma Margherita rose quickly and as if inspired said: "My little ones, in order to avert great evils, we have to employ desperate remedies." Without giving any further explanation, the very haggard looking woman took water from her earthenware jug and filled the iron cauldron. Then she requested that Anthony mind the fire and have the water boiling by the time she came back.

Margherita knew that Anthony would resent the next step she planned to take. He was always critical of what she did and on this occasion she felt no need of argument or explanation. She herself was too exhausted from hunger to cope with the difficult step-son. Margherita went next door, knocked at the neighbor's home. She asked if one of the men would volunteer to assist her. He followed her into the bare stable. The stalls were empty except for the lowing of a prize calf. Anthony had planned to sell it for a great price, then they could have bought another cow to replace the one slaughtered and eaten long ago.

Margherita showed the calf to the neighbor. It would have to be killed at once. Time was of the utmost importance. As soon as the calf was butchered, she herself took a piece of the freshly killed calf into the kitchen. She dropped the meat into the boiling water and in a short time she called her children to the table. It was their first decent meal in weeks.

A few days later a huge shipment of groceries arrived. They had come from southern friends who hearing of her plight had sent relief. Bernard Cavallo had been true to his promise, he had seen to it that help came and it came and just in time. Margherita's spirit of faith had worked miracles. She reminded her children that: "God cared for them, that it was their duty to accept whatever happened without rebellion of spirit. That though at times the weather and the seasons dealt roughly with them, God was there and He cared for them. She reminded them of how food had become a critical problem, yet God had solved it. The same Creator who cared for the birds of the air and the lilies of the fields cared for each one of them."

From then on Margherita struggled harder to save her children. Daily she rose at dawn to work till dark. With the familiar red kerchief tied around her bowed head, she went to work. Though her skin was wrinkled from exposure, her back almost bent in half, she toiled on as if she were indestructible. Margherita, the poor widow of Becchi, never for a moment forgot the sacred duty confided to her by her dying husband. He had left her three sons. As far as was humanly possible, she was determined to be to them both a father and a mother - all in one.

Chapter 5

Basic Fundamentals

On seeing little John Bosco, people paused and wondered. The question uppermost in their minds was: "Who really formed this exceptionally bright child? Who raised him? Who made him what he was? Who trained him so beautifully?" Mamma Margherita, the simple, unlettered soul had undertaken to mould the youngest son confided to her by her dying husband. Only by means of heroic strength and peasant tenacity had she been able to oppose Anthony. If Anthony succeeded in having his way, her little John would have been wedded to the soil, he would have become a slave to his whims. Had Anthony had his way, Margherita would not have gone to market, but he would have attended to the trading and selling. Step by step, Margherita circumvented his countless objections. He could not cope with her plain common sense. Margherita knew what was right and what was wrong. She understood what was expected of a woman in her position. With the fortitude of a matriarch she pushed forward making her own decisions, planning as best she could for the immediate future.

The jealous taunts of her step-son did not deter her. Though his hateful feelings towards John were unfortunately to bring great sorrow to her and her youngest, she was broad-minded enough not to bear him a grudge. Anthony was to mar the once peaceful home by bickering and quarrels. He constantly picked fights, arguing over everything. He did not understand why a two or three-year--old child should be treated any different from the rest, nor would he let Mamma Margherita make any exceptions for little John.

The saddest aspect of this brotherly dislike was that nothing John ever said or did was right. For over eleven years, his spiteful attitude was to sadden the childhood of John. His abusive treatment of John extended at times to Mamma Margherita. As the years passed, her anxiety over this situation grew. The older John became, the greater the tension. Often the breaking point was reached, but Mamma Margherita, by her tact saved the situation.

Physically, Anthony was as strong as an ox. He knew this and was extremely proud of his brawn. To him strength of muscle alone mattered. He was uninterested in anything pertaining to the intellect. Nor did he care for recreational activities. Farming was his whole life and his entire being. He felt that all humanity should sow, plow, reap. He could not see why anyone wished to embrace any other career. He never realized that his narrow-minded concept of life made him wholly unfit for any other occupation.

The older Joseph and John became, the more frequent were his quarrels with them. Tension mounted in what had once been a happy family. Daily Anthony made a point of abusing his brother. He used his tongue as successfully as he did his whip. John being an extremely intelligent child resented this unfair treatment. In self defense he burst into tantrums. Being but a mere baby he used this method to defend himself from a brother twelve years older. His mother worried, realizing this was a poor way in which to gain sympathy and the attention of onlookers. She did her best to curb her youngest, insisting that if he did not control his temper when young, he would hurt himself and others in later life.

This wise mother quickly sensed that there was no alternative. She would have to keep John at her side. She felt it was unsafe to permit either Joseph or John to be left alone with Anthony. During the first two years after her husband's death she never left John out of sight. She was by no means a woman who clung unnecessarily to her son, yet in this instance it was best to keep clashing temperaments as far apart as possible.

John as soon as he could walk, toddled after his mother. He was at her apron strings in the kitchen, next to her on her way to the fountain. He proudly watched his beautiful mother balancing the earthenware jug gracefully on top of her head. He was with her when dawn tinged the skies with daylight hues. There was never any need for her to awaken him. He shared her corn-husk mattress. When she arose to work in the fields, he would arise.

John trailed after his mother in the fields, keeping up with her as best he could. Nothing escaped him. He saw the young bulls and colts, the scattered flocks of sheep. Margherita would stop, in order to give her child a chance to catch up with her. Side by side they would be off again - laughing and chatting about the beauties of the fields, the clouds, the sky. John would race across the fields, chasing butterflies, picking flowers, watching new birds.

Margherita would join the reapers. In time she would become one of the mass of workers, hard to distinguish from the rest. Her hand glided along the wooden handle of the sharp scythe, as the sharp blade cut down the stalks of wheat or oats. To watch her, one would have thought that she had become like unto a machine. She neverstopped the swishing, rhythmic motion till she reached the end of each row. Then, without looking up, or catching her breath, Margherita began all over again - leaving behind her row after row of fallen wheat which gleamed in the broiling sun. In most cases, when women worked in the fields they kept pace with the husbands. Margherita was an exception. She set the pace, she worked so fast that it was difficult for even the menfolk to keep up with the agile little woman from Becchi.

John loved nature passionately.He had, this trait from his mother. He was here and there and everywhere. Tired of running, he would lie in thick grass to study the frogs on lily pads, or striped lizards on rocks. There was never a dull moment. He was interested in song-birds, where they made their nests, the color of their eggs, their young ones. Sometimes he would wander far away. so far that his mother would have to hunt for him. There were times, when exhausted from the heat, she would find him asleep under a haystack or along the river bank.

John loved his mother dearly. He felt her to be the most wonderful person in all the world. He marveled at her power, at her influence, at her ability to say the right thing without so much as hurting the feelings of a soul. Weekly, when together they went to market, people of all ages flocked around her. Nothing ever escaped her eagle eye, she saw all things and was interested in all kinds of people. Noticing a simple country girl look dejected, she approached her. Quietly, politely taking a personal interest in her pretty hair, or eyes, or bearing, she would ask why she dressed in such an unbecoming manner? If she felt she wore an objectionable dress, she might even ask: "Have you ever thought of what your Guardian Angel would think of you?" Unfortunately the reply was indifference - usually extreme poverty, neglect. These mere children had been sent away from home at an early age. They came from great distances, were being exploited by masters who gave them poor wages or no wages at all.

Touched by their sad history, Margherita would invite them to her home. When she found time, she made new clothes or mended those they wore. Margherita with her heart of a mother could touch the most calloused. She reached out into a sordid world and brought happiness. No sooner were the rags mended than she began to work on the child's soul. She harped on the fact that cleanliness was a virtue, that untidiness was wrong, that sloth brought about immodesty, and immodesty even in clothing could bring about tragic results. Eventually Margherita found suitable work in nice homes where reliable farmers would be kind to these motherless girls.

This same zeal was applied to those who had fallen into immoral habits. Margherita did all in her power to assist the ones who really repented. She even invited them to come and live with her. She felt that as long as they were under her roof, she could keep them safe from objectionable company. Never one to mince words, she was most outspoken in voicing the truth. Yet it was her own ascetic manner of living that inspired and touched them most. Her dignity, her authority extended beyond the confines of her own walls. She was an interested onlooker, but never a meddler.

There lived in Becchi a young woman of ill-repute. Mamma Margherita had waited. She had even hoped that the gossip created by the situation might die down. When she realized that the very disturbing situation in a respectable community had not been remedied, then she took steps to stop the scandal. Losing not a moment, Margherita, escorted by her four-year-old John, now paid Claudia a most unexpected visit. Knocking at the door, she called loudly, so that everyone could hear her: "Claudia! Claudia! I come to you on important business. I must speak to you on urgent matters."

Claudia, who had the misfortune of falling in love with a good-for-nothing, came to the door. Margherita knew that Claudia had not taken the trouble of getting married. She was energetic in telling her what she thought of her.

Claudia tearfully explained that it was now too late. She did not know how to rid herself of the lover. Margherita asked if she really meant what she said, if she was serious when she said she would like to stay away from him, but he would not let her. Claudia promised that if Margherita could remove the man in question, she would reform. Margherita took things into her own hands. Margherita threw open the front door. She called: "Cesare! Cesare! Do you hear me? You are to get out of here for good. You do not belong here. Be gone you scoundrel. This was once a perfectly reputable neighborhood. You will ruin its name."

Cesare who had heard the commotion had been watching from the back window. A group of angry villagers had congregated. Fists were being shaken, threats being made. The mischief-maker needed no reminder that these people were in dead earnest. He grabbed his few belongings and fled, never to be heard of again. Margherita kept her promise. She saw to it that Claudia got help.

Later, when the woman found the right kind of a husband and married. Margherita was at the wedding. Though Margherita could neither read nor write, she had her own views on education. She had never been to school, but her prodigious memory enabled her to know by heart not only the catechism but much of the new testament and long sections of her Sunday missal. If elementary education had been denied her, it was certainly not her fault. She was able to impart to her children much of their religious training, since she remembered what she had learned at home and as a child from her parish priest. Every night, when the day's work was done, Margherita gathered the little family around the kitchen shrine. Once prayers had been said, she instructed her sons in the knowledge of God. She appealed to each one according to his ability of assimilation. She inculcated in them a deep, reverent love of God and next to God, a love of neighbor. She reminded them of their duty to serve their neighbor, the sick, the poor, and destitute, for - next to the love of God - this was the second greatest commandment.

Anthony did his best to object to her spirit of hospitality. He resented the fact that anyone came into his home. He was stingy, calculating, and resentful. Yet, his mother paid no attention. Their Becchi home was so situated, that of necessity people stopped at their door. It was a sort of in-between, with right-of-way cutting their property in half. They were miles away from any sizeable town, so Margherita was called upon for help. In times of emergency; it might be the rich, it might be the poor. There were the old and the young. They all came and came at all times. She might have worked hard all day, yet nights she was the consoling angel of the sick and dying.

A timid knock, a hurried call, the frantic footsteps of a frightened parent brought Margherita to her door. When a pregnant mother was in labor she was there to help. A sick child dying of diptheria or croup, perhaps she could save a life. There had been an accident, no doctor within reach, then Margherita became nurse and doctor all in one. In each instance she knew just what to do.

If the priest, who had been sent for, was delayed, then it was Margherita who pressed the crucifix to the lips of the dying. It was she who started the ejaculations and murmured the act of contrition. She knew the kind of prayers that would comfort them, lifting their hearts and minds to God. In fact she seemed to lead the dying to the very gates of heaven. Then when all was over, it was she who closed their eyes for that eternal sleep. Often kneeling all night, she led the prayers for the dead, consoling those left behind.

This same unselfishness was shown towards her neighbors who came to borrow. The very ones who had turned her down in her own hour of need, thought nothing of coming to borrow when they were short of groceries. They might be apologetical when they asked to borrow flour, eggs, corn, or salt, but their memories were very short. Margherita would cheerfully measure the needed commodity, then not wishing to further embarrass them, when they referred to the fact, that they were already in great debt to her - she would brush it all aside with: "Oh I have already forgotten all about what you came for last week. When you next go to market merely return to me what I have now given you. That will clear your debt."

She insisted on hospitality. Anthony might grumble, but he never dared show disrespect to a guest. She set forth the great principles of true hospitality, a hospitality which stretched well beyond the financial means of her little family. She could ill afford it, yet her hospitality was so genuine, so real that all who came in contact with her home could not help but leave her roof edified by what had been seen.

Margherita understood best how to work her apostolate amongst travelling salesmen or peddlers. When they opened up their baskets, or knapsacks to show their wares, she spied the books or pictures that gave bad example. If she could not induce them to burn them, she herself paid for the article. After serious admonition she threw books and pictures into the flames. She pleaded eloquently that they mend their ways, just as she insisted that all conversation be edifying. Her friends, as she called these guests, were many and varied. Yearly, the charcoal burner who managed to arrive in time to be caught in the blizzard, could count on the widow providing him with adequate shelter till more favorable weather. Then there was the respectable cobbler. He practised the art of mending harnesses and leather straps. There were the shoes to be resoled. He made himself at home till all the work was done.

During and after the Napoleonic wars, there were deserters who sought a hiding place. Of these and of smugglers or bandits nothing was asked. In the foothills of the great Alpine passes where she lived, a profitable smuggling trade was carried on in contraband goods. When police were in hot pursuit, the fugitives from justice sought asylum under Margherita's roof, knowing that her hayloft was spacious and secure. When police tracked them to their retreat, they would be invited to share the fire and rest. Once refreshed, they would start out again on their all night search. This period of rest had given the refugees time to escape to the woods or valley below.

Besides attending to all the marketing, working in the fields and vineyards, and keeping house, her all important bimonthly chore was breadmaking; whole-wheat bread got hard, but once dunked in soup or milk it became palatable. Her tasty bread was greatly appreciated by the family, besides polenta the only staple product which maintained them during trying times.

John never forgot how on one occasion when his mother had arranged the hour for her bread-making, she stood before an empty flour bin with amazement written over her face. John knew at once what had happened: "Mamma mia, what is the matter? Why you gave the flour away to Donatello only the other day. You said he was so poor and needed it more than we did." Laughing at her absent-mindedness, "Yes, you are right John. There will be no bread today."

While this conversation had been taking place, Signor Cavallo had come into the kitchen unannounced and unnoticed. He had witnessed the flush of amazement on the widow's face, he had heard John's simple explanation. Quietly he left without having been seen. A short time later a servant left a sack of flour at Margherita's door. Young Signora Bosco was at first upset, she never accepted anonymous gifts. John suspected the donor. His mother went to inquire. When her benefactor explained the situation, there was little she could say."Signora you take it upon yourself to aid others. You too are entitled to be helped." Then he made her promise that the next time she was in such a predicament she would come and borrow from his wife.

On another occasion the baking had just been completed. There was a strange knock at the door. Being late, Margherita had hesitated. A ten-year-old lad came limping into the kitchen. He was ragged and starving. She at once gave him some hot milk and made him eat. She learned that his entire family was destitute. Great was the amazement of the three boys, who had stared wide-eyed while she gave him all the loaves of bread she had baked.

Anthony reprimanded her roundly for her foolhardiness. Margherita merely replied, that she had done what she had considered her duty. They had other food that could replace bread in a

emergency. Filippo's family was starving and had nothing.

Margherita had managed by prayer and sheer will-power to surmount the many obstacles that came into her life. When things were finally beginning to look better, she received proposals. Though marriage was the last thing she would have dreamed of, the Widow of Becchi was talked of by every one. One suitor flatly refused to be turned down. Though Margherita never divulged his name, in later years she spoke about the incident to Joseph and John.

The ardent admirer not only offered to marry her, but being a man of great wealth with a very prominent government position, he assured her, all her days of misery and worry would be over. His offers were most tempting. Besides he had even taken all three boys into consideration, and offered to have them tutored. Margherita was aghast. Her mother's instinct rebelled. The pretty widow protested vehemently.' She tried to make the gentleman understand that a tutor was an outsider and no tutor could replace a mother's affection and care.

"Never will I abandon the future of my sons to a stranger. I would never confide their education to anyone else but myself. No, I am very sorry. No matter how enticing your offer is, it is not I who count, but my children. They come first. I can neither accept your proposal nor will I exchange my present position close to my boys. I will not exchange the boys for any price."

In later years in talking about this incident to her sons, they asked why she had not married this nameless friend? "Oh, it is very simple. He was most kind, he was most considerate, and I believe he really loved me. Yet I was firmly convinced that God had already given me a wonderful husband for a purpose. That same God took my Francis away from me and left me all alone. I had a duty, for on dying, my husband confided you three boys to me in a very special manner. There really never was any other alternative. My path was clearly marked for me. All I had to do was follow, step by step the road signs ahead. I had to become both father and mother all in one."

Chapter 6.

Her Children

Mamma Margherita not only watched over her children with untiring care, but was most particular about the friends they made. She was just as careful about what went on inside the home as what went on in the homes of their friends. Whatever free time she had, she spent in church or saying her rosary. She was not ashamed of the fact that prayer was as essential to her mode of living as was eating, or working, or sleeping. When neighbors remonstrated that she was trying to do too much, she would use the advice Saint Paul gave the Ephesians: "You who are fathers, do not rouse your children to resentment, the training and the discipline which you bring them must come from the Lord."

Instead of being burdened or upset by their noisy games, she was very happy that the boys stayed near home, that their friends congregated around the house or in the fields. Of course, she insisted that they ask her permission to play. She also insisted on knowing who their companions were. She met them all, as they were always welcome to bring their playmates to the house. More than once, Mamma Margherita pinned up the hem of her skirt and played games with them. She took a keen interest in their childish plans. Her children, and their friends all looked up at her, not down. Even in the presence of others, her boys knew that a mere look was a command. Her wish was carried out without her having to raise her voice. At a very early age, Mamma Margherita had trained them to implicit obedience.

The boys were real boys. There was nothing angelic in their make-up. One hot summer afternoon the younger brothers came running into the kitchen. Both lads were thirsty. They asked for a drink of water. Water was scarce. It was carefully kept cool in an earthenware jug. Mamma Margherita gave Joseph who was two years older the first tumbler full. John was annoyed. He felt he had been neglected. So he peevishly turned his back on his mother. Margherita often overlooked small failings, in the hopes of making an issue of more important faults. She merely poured out a second glass and handed it to the pouting child. Seeing that he continued to sulk, she took the water away. Then without another word continued her kitchen work.

John knew he was in the wrong. He also knew that he had hurt his mother. Shyly he said: "Mamma mia." Margherita replied: "What is it my little John?" "May I also drink?""Why I thought you were no longer thirsty." John threw his arms around her neck: "Mamma please forgive me." She readily pardoned him, then gave him the water to drink.

Another time, John wished to join his companions playing games. He had neglected his chores in the barn and was refused permission. He was told to finish what he had left undone that morning. He resented the reprimand. Hot-headed John flew into a rage. He wanted his way. Without changing her expression, John's mother pointed to the far corner. Hanging over a picture, on the wall, was a birch switch. St. Nicholas on his feast day left with his sack of goodies a useful switch, with words of warning to those who needed it. Apparently the stern look on his mother's face brought him to his senses. Frightened he asked, "What are you going to do with it, when I bring it to you?" "Without changing her tone or expression: "Bring me the switch, you will soon find out."

Mamma Margherita rarely scolded. She never nagged and usually was cheerful and even playful, for she wanted to become a companion and win their confidence. John knew that there were times when his beloved mother suffered much because she even took sides, defending him from his older brother. He had hoped that she would carry out his wishes. But he very soon leaned that his mother was exceedingly fair and just. John had noticed the stern meaning of her command. He ran across the room, climbed a chair and stood in front of her holding the switch. Looking at her with his beautiful brown eyes he said: "Mamma are you going to really let it waltz across my back?"

"Certainly, why not? If you insist on being headstrong, I have no alternative but to spank you." "Oh Mamma mia I'll be good, I won't do it again."

This wise mother realized that by quick action and few words she could achieve results. She had also taught them fearlessness.

Wishing to implant deeply into their souls a realization that they must fear sin and sin alone, she lost no opportunity of teaching them to be brave and courageous. There was no need of ever running away from anything or anyone. They should fear sin and run from evil. All else should be faced with faith and courage.

The two younger boys came home one day reporting that a large quantity of ripe grapes had been stolen. The peasants throughout the land had an unwritten code, stealing was unheard of. Though they had no fences between property, no farmer crossed from his plot of land into that of his neighbor without first seeking permission. To so much as trespass or even taste fruit on next door property would have been the cause of a duel or vendetta.

Margherita decided they would sit up all night and watch. They would scare away the robbers. Anthony was all for using his gun on the thieves. Margherita would not hear of this plan. Instead she equipped the boys with cowbells and old pots and pans. Just as foreseen, the men who had robbed the night before came stealthily. When the culprits crossed their line, the noise started. Quick footed Anthony gave them a merry chase. As they returned home late that night, Mamma Margherita remarked: "See how evil makes cowards out of even grown men. Boys never do wrong, promise me to watch yourselves, then you will never have to run away from anyone. Learn now to be fearless, to be unafraid."

That autumn when the time came for the vendemmia, there were not enough grapes for the vintage. So after the grape gathering, Mamma Margherita decided to take her poor crop to Capriglio. She would add her grapes to the harvest of her parents. She would save time, there would be much less work, and in the end she could come home with the finished product. All three of her sons helped pick grapes and place them in the homemade wicker baskets. These in turn were loaded on to the oxcart. Once ready, Margherita with her youngest, headed towards the village of Capriglio. Mother and son spent a restful week assisting in the vendemmia. This was probably the first and last holiday Margherita was to have. She enjoyed every moment.

Evenings when the men had finished with the wine-pressing, the family gathered around the kitchen door. Before them spread the beautiful landscape. Snow-capped Alps stood out like cameos against the purple backdrop of night. One evening the younger generation stampeded towards their elders, shouting: "ghost! ghost! ghost!" There was much undue excitement, even fright. A strange noise had been heard in the attic, at times it was extremely loud, then again could hardly be heard.

John being the youngest seemed also the bravest. In fact, he informed his cousins there was no such thing as a ghost. His mother had told him to be afraid of nothing. He wanted to go and see for himself. He also wanted to prove to them that the ghost they heard was non-existent. Being of a curious frame of mind, he pleaded till he was given a candle. Mamma Margherita kept close to her son, but he led the way. Fearlessly he climbed the ladder up to the trap door and opened it.

Once again, this time even the grown-ups heard a loud noise. They knew it could not be a mouse, or a squirrel, for there was a distinct bump. . . bump. . . bump. . . The rattling sound grew louder. Those who had followed John fled shrieking. John handed his mother the candle and advanced cautiously. He had seen something move in the corner. Fearlessly he approached the object that acted very strangely. A large wood-framed sieve used to sift wheat was circling the floor and even came towards him. John leaned down, grabbed the sieve to see what caused it to act so queerly.

With a shout of glee: "Mamma mia! Look, it is a poor little hen. It's neither a devil nor a ghost." In a second John became a hero. His grandparents were proud of his courage. Grandpa Occhiena expostulated: "One of the silly children put a clucking hen here last week and forgot the poor thing. She had been wandering about looking for food."

Margherita, a firm believer in answering childish questions, encouraged their chatter. She awakened at a very early age an ardent love of nature. She wanted them to become interested in the beautiful things God had created for their benefit. She felt that by winning their confidence, she taught them self-expression. Thus besides working for her sons, she became playmate and companion. Besides being a remarkably intelligent woman, she was deeply religious. She lived in the presence of God and God was constantly on her lips. When her children came to ask permission to play, she would call as they ran off to the fields: "Don't forget, I may not be near you and see you, but God is there and God sees even your most secret thoughts."

Mamma Margherita was one who followed her little John very closely. Because of this constant supervision even in tiny things, her tempestuous son finally overcame his nasty moods. She had whispered into his ear so often: "God knows, dear John, what you are thinking. God sees and watches your most secret thoughts and acts." Gradually his sulky tendencies vanished and his quick temper became less violent.

Margherita applied this same system with untruths. When one or another of her sons tried to escape just punishment by lies, she would raise a finger and shake it. "There is no use your trying to escape God, before Him no one can afford to lie. Since He knows all things and He sees all things you cannot escape His watchful eye."

Margherita might be very exacting, but she was most sympathetic and understanding. She never wasted a moment in idle rest. Punctual to the extreme, she demanded punctuality of her family. When any of her sons were lazy, she would reprimand them: "Never waste a moment in useless sleep. Life is short, so very short. Every idle hour wasted in useless sleep is an hour lost for all eternity. Work, while it is day, there remains so little time left in which we can do good. Every moment we gain by keeping awake and working and praying, means the prolongation of our own lives."

Hard on herself, she was just as adamant about self-discipline. She simply refused to coddle any of her children. She felt life in itself was hard. Life consisted in overcoming obstacles. These obstacles could not be vanquished without daily mortification. When people in the neighborhood introduced horsehair mattresses and eiderdown bedding, Margherita insisted that her family continue to sleep on sacks filled with corn husks. These mattresses made of the dry outer covering of corn, made good enough beds for herself and her sons. She would remonstrate: "Who knows what Divine Providence has ordained for your future. It is far better to accustom yourselves now to a hard resting place, than trying to do so later. Should you in the future have the chance to be the proud possessor of a downy bed, it will require no habit on your part to accustom yourself to such luxuries. Better have a hard bed my boys, than have no bed at all. Better be grateful to God for giving us a roof over our heads and a comfortable home and land to till."

Her foremost preoccupation was religious instruction. Her step-son Anthony was very earthly minded. He insisted that John work even before the lad was four years old. Margherita had until then insisted that the youngest go to bed early. He was excused from the long formula of night prayers which ended in saying the rosary.

Margherita announced since he had been promoted to working in the fields and shredding hemp, he was then old enough to sit up nights and join in the prayers. He could also listen to the fireside stories she told the older boys. Of course little John was delighted. Many a night instead of going to bed, he had sat on the creaking ladder listening to his mother's voice. Now he could officially participate.

John gradually became adept at odd jobs. He joined Joseph in chopping wood, in bringing water from the well, in preparing vegetables. They picked the ripe apples, saw that the rooms were cleaned, swept the stables, and even milked the cow. There was always a plentiful supply of dead wood, or pine cones to be carried home. With the coming of autumn there were ears of ripe corn to hang on stable walls and when dried to take from the eaves and husk. There was the bread Mamma Margherita baked that needed watching.

Yet, no matter how hard little John worked, and no matter how hard he tried to keep up to Joseph, nothing he ever did pleased big brother Anthony. Anthony tried his mother to the breaking point. Daily he grew more demanding, more insulting. He became a real cross. He suffered from the illusion that he was being mistreated, that his half-brothers were favorites. Whenever he could, he would oppose her.

One evening, after having been more contrary than usual, Anthony joined in the family prayer just as if nothing extraordinary had taken place that day. The Our Father had been started. When the words: "Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us," should have been said, Mamma Margherita looked at Anthony.

"Son, you can leave this part out."

"Why should I, does it not belong to this prayer?" He questioned arrogantly.

"Yes, it belongs here, but there is no use of your saying mere words. You know you don't mean it."

"What shall I say instead?" He insisted arrogantly tossing his head in pride.

"Say whatever you want to, but not these words."

"If I care to say them, who will dare stop me?"

Margherita had fire in her eyes. "I will stop you. You have been unbearable all day with your younger brothers. You have a burning hate in your heart, you bear them a grudge. They are helpless against your cruelty."

Anthony kept silent during the rest of the night prayers, nor did he join in saying the rosary. His moody, resentful silence permeated the room. When the final sign of the cross was made, he rose from his knees. He went up to his mother: "Forgive me, you are right. I see how wrong I have been. I will try not to be so wicked again." Margherita held up her arms and embraced him. There was no bitterness in her heart, only great pity. She was determined, with God's help, to make a man out of him. She never gave up trying and hoping.

Religious instruction took place during the nightly get-togethers before the kitchen fire. When John grew older and no longer could occupy the comfortable seat on his mother's lap, he helped weave baskets. His very nimble fingers soon did everything the others did. While Margherita did the spinning, weaving or mending, she loved to talk to her boys about God. To her, prayer was founded upon faith. She would insist that when praying, either inwardly or outwardly, they be firmly convinced that the Lord was there, that He heard every word. She would tell them: "Speak from your whole heart. Have faith that the Lord will have mercy on you."

She would point to the heavens: "How beautiful is the firmament. God has given us everything we need. He has created everything for our benefit. Think how glorious it will be one day in heaven. God has made the earth with its flowers, fields, the sunset, the rising moon, the snow-clad mountains, all this loveliness around us speaks of God."

When Margherita expounded the commandments of God and the Church, her audience was spellbound. Eager-eyed, the children listened hour after hour to her poetic manner of narrating the Old and New Testament. When the winter winds howled around their cottage, she reminded her sons that they must thank God for being so good. He kept out the cold. In God they had a real Father, an all-seeing Provider. Were they not well clothed, well fed, well housed? Nightly before going to their hard beds, they fell on their knees again, to thank and then to pray for those who that night would die in the storm.

Anthony saw no reason for treating John differently than the rest of the family. He was four, high time to be weaned from his mother's apron strings. Margherita realized she might as well give in. Yet, since he was to work, he should work with Joseph. By turning him over to his brother he would be well cared for. The active, spirited lad would find an outlet for his exuberance. Joseph, two years older, would act as a brake. He might lack the talent and ambition of the older boy, yet he was dependable, always very good, able to carry out instructions with minute attention. Plodding, unobtrusive Joseph would be good for John.

In his care Margherita knew she would not have to worry. She realized what the sacrifice would cost her, how she would miss his childish prattle, his inquisitive, naive observations. Without so much as, "by your leave, or may I?" Anthony had arranged that little John become a herdsman for neighbors. Daily the little lad took a string of goats to pasture, their bells tinkled melodiously in the early morning air. Sometimes he led a cow to the hills, more often he became a shepherd leading his flock to meadow lands. John was guarded by his faithful shepherd dog Barri.

Mamma Margherita's heart ached for her youngest son. He was far too little to be earning a living, having to work for strangers. She made a point of baking him an extra special loaf of whole-wheat bread. But John was not one to complain. She would watch him stumble on the narrow trail without so much as a word of complaint. How she longed to keep him close to her. Yet she realized that though at first he would turn back and throw her kisses, and his big, wistful eyes looked sorrowful, his active mind would soon find things to keep his thoughts occupied.

John was fascinated by the white or light grey oxen, whose great horns would graze him, as they passed him and his flock of sheep. The dissertations on nature that his mother had given made him forget how the sun-baked stones burned the soles of his feet. His mother had opened a new world to him. There was never a dull moment, there was much too much to see, to explore, to study, for John found pleasure everywhere.

Out on the meadows, he made friends with the shepherd boys. There was one called Secondo Matta, an orphan, with whom he exchanged confidences. They would look for birds' nests, catch butterflies. Secondo never had a decent meal, he was given stale, crusty, black bread. John would turn over to him the tasty bread made by his mother, pleading that he preferred black bread.

In later years when they met again, Secondo asked John why had he always exchanged his portion of bread for his stale, meagre ration. John who had pretended at the time that he preferred black to whole-wheat bread told the truth. "Mother always had hidden a few dainty surprises in my luncheon kit, you had nothing. I felt very sorry for you. I knew if I told you, your pride would be hurt. I had a very wonderful mother, you had no one - just me."

Secondo and a group of other shepherds kept secret a mishap that might have proved fatal. There was one custom, prevalent amongst the peasant lads, which she did not approve of. They raided the nests and stole the eggs. On one occasion they found a nest high up. They were determined to climb the oak tree, several of them scaled the highest branches but failed. Finally, John being the youngest came last. He could climb trees like a monkey. In no time he was up to the topmost branch. Once there he leaned over, seized the entire nest, eggs and all, stuck them inside his shirt, and slowly turned from his precarious position to come back. The huge branch cracked, broke, John hanging by one hand was there in mid-air. Fearful of crushing the eggs he jumped. A shout of terror, the boys were sure he would be killed. Instead of landing on his head, he landed on his feet. The boys rushed to his rescue, but on seeing him stand there, ashen, but all in one piece, they shouted: "Where are our eggs? Give us our eggs."

Trembling like an aspen leaf he handed over the prize nest and eggs which had remained intact. Then, without saying a word, he left his sheep and headed for home. Before he reached the kitchen door he collapsed. Joseph, seeing him, ran to his rescue. John nearly doubled in half from pain, gave no other explanation, than that he suffered from a stomach-ache. Mamma Margherita sent for the doctor. Neither could make out the strange malady, yet the boy was so ill, that for three months he had to stay in his bed. During this period of inactivity he confided the truth to the doctor.

"Why have you waited so long before telling me? I should have known this long ago."

John shook his head determinedly: "Oh no - each time you came my mother was present. Had she known what happened she would have scolded, punished me, and perhaps even forbidden me from ever again climbing another tree."

During this period of convalescence Joseph caught a blackbird for John. Mamma Margherita who knew all about bird cage making, having done this for her younger brothers before her marriage, showed John how to split reeds and make one of his own. John and Nero became inseparable. He taught the bird to perch on his shoulder, to eat from his lips. Then one day, John left his room and forgot to close the cage. On coming back he found only feathers. His pet cat had eaten the bird.

John was inconsolable. He cried his eyes out. His mother offered to even buy him one on market-day. Bluntly he informed her, he wanted no other pet. He wanted only his Nero. He had loved Nero, nothing else would do, nor take his place.The slightest provocation caused a flood of tears. His mother could so easily have shown impatience or annoyance. One day seeing the petulant youngster crying again, she only laughed. Then said with pity in her voice: "What a foolish, very foolish little boy you are. Why do you shed so many tears for such a tiny loss?" Suddenly light dawned and John understood. He looked up midst his tears, smiled, and threw his arms around her neck kissing her affectionately.

The very next day Margherita took an hour off to go bird hunting. Mother and son a distance from home finally found a rare nest. A male nightingale was singing merrily to his reddish brown mate. She was sitting on a nest of pretty eggs. John kept his secret. He would tell no one, fearful that a thief might steal the nest. Daily, John slipped away to visit his new friends. When at long last he heard chirping and much fluttering of both parents, he knew the fledglings had hatched. He climbed a neighboring tree to watch five hungry mouths opened for food. Suddenly a large bird swiftly circled the nest and frightened away the parents. The cuckoo, which John already knew, swooped down, killed the helpless birds and ate them.

John tore home, crying bitterly, shouting for help. Mamma Margherita met him half way and asked, "What did you do?" "Do? There was nothing I could do. It all happened so quickly. I was taken by surprise just as the birds were taken by surprise." Mamma Margherita told him he had better go back and see what happened. In all probability the cuckoo would take over the nest. Being a lazy bird, she never makes a nest - never does any work, leaves that to others. Then once she had laid her eggs she flies away leaving the burden of brooding over her eggs to someone else. She explained how the cuckoo was a typical example of a shiftless creature turning over hard work to others.

John, on returning to the nest found everything to have taken place that his mother had told him. The cuckoo sat there laying her eggs. Then one day he saw a cat slyly crawl up the tree and eat the unsuspecting lazy bird. One egg remained in the nest. Without warning the nightingales returned to size up the situation. Mrs. Nightingale on seeing an egg, at once called her husband and began sitting on the cuckoo egg.

Margherita used this as an example of how the kindly little bird performed a great act of charity. She bore no grudges but performed her maternal duties until one day a cuckoo was hatched. John waited a few days then carried home to his mother the fledgling. He placed it in the empty cage and fed it till it was strong enough to fly and care for itself. A few weeks later the cuckoo was found dead. It had choked itself between the willow strips.Mamma Margherita shook her head sadly: "Poor bird, it inherited bad traits from a dishonest parent. You children must be doubly grateful that God gave you such a wonderful father. He left you such a good name and gave you each such an excellent example."

On another day John had seen a nest on a willow tree. Anxious to get it in a hurry, he carelessly caught his hand between the branches. His shouts of help brought his mother to his rescue. Once she had brought him to safety, she shook her head and said: "My little John, look at the birds of the air. They do not sow or reap or gather into barns, yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of much more value then they?"

When market day came around, she made quite sure that each boy had his specific assignment. She promised that if they did their work well, she would bring back some sweet buns specially baked only on market days. Then, whether the sun shone or it rained. Margherita went her way. Her children on seeing her so tired and wet would feel sorry for her. They would dry the mud splattered hem of her skirt. Yet, she never complained. She was always as glad to see her youngsters, as they were to welcome her. Joyous shouts greeted her: "Have you the promised buns, where are they?"

But no buns would be forthcoming until Margherita had made her rounds to ascertain just how much of the assignment had been carried out. She would inquire if they had remembered to say their Ave Marias when the noon day Angelus bell rang. After this, being satisfied, she would distribute their recompense.

John's favorite game was galla. Galla was a sort of hockey played with a wooden stick. The small wood ball was struck and sent flying across the field. When the aim was a bad one, the ball caused serious head injuries. Often little John came to his mother with bleeding wounds.

Margherita would wash and bandage his head. Then looking at his face screwed up with pain, she would protest: "No more permissions from me for you to be banged up in this manner. You must keep away from those rowdy ruffians. This finishes it." John, with his bandaged face, looked so pitiful. He pleaded so eloquently: "But Mamma I asked your permission. You told me I might play with them. Do let me go back. When I am there they do not use curse words, they are not so mean to each other, they don't fight."

Deep in her heart his mother knew he was right. Even at that tender age he exerted a most remarkable influence over children of all ages. When he was there things went smoothly. They were never quite as rowdy, never used vile and sinful language. She had no alternative. She let John go back to join in the games.

John by now had become Joseph's constant companion. Of course, they never moved without their faithful dog Barri. What a happy trio they made out during the first spring days. As soon as the sirocco had melted the winter snows, the trio scoured the hills for medicinal herbs or collected bushel baskets of mushrooms. These they happily brought back home and Mamma Margherita would string them together, then dry them in the attic. Mushrooms would give the tasteless cornmeal mush a wonderful fragrance and make it twice as tasty.

Often found at the same time as the many mushrooms were the highly prized truffles. This epicurean delicacy called tartufi commanded fabulous prices. Local markets shipped them to gourmets in the great cities. The truffles, or tartufi of Piedmont were not black like their French counterpart, but a purple or grey color varying in size from that of a pea to a huge potato. Since no one seemed to know much about the origin or habits of this underground fungus, its finding was always accompanied by a moment of tense excitement.

Though John could not command his pig to find truffles, he had a successful way of his own of locating the buried treasure. Usually when the autumn frost tinged the oak groves a golden yellow, he spent the day in the woods. Acorns were considered excellent fattening fodder for swine. Armed with a long stick to knockdown the nuts John hurried to his destination. Once there he let his porker loose, while he collected the nuts.

Since truffles were found at the root of oak trees, he and his faithful dog watched the pig most carefully. Her keen sense of smell detected the buried treasure as surely as geiger-counters uranium. The tell-tale moment was quite easy to distinguish. When there were grunts and squeals, and the snoot began to grub and snort, quick as a flash little John would be on the spot. Barri the dog aided to shove aside the pig, whose hunger John would satisfy with a handful of acorns. In the meantime he could hurriedly continue the excavation.

Mamma Margherita could always tell when John brought his purple or greyish gold. His joy was far too great to be contained. Nothing could have made him happier. He had found a real treasure which his mother could sell at the market for a very high price. Mamma Margherita always rewarded her son. She usually brought back something he needed for his conjuring tricks. Then instead of selling all her eggs, she kept a few to make a tasty omelet, into which she sliced paper thin bits of truffles. She always felt that they were also entitled to a reward.

November always brought hours of great excitement. A little later than the acorn hunts came the chestnut finding. Once the icy blasts of winter nipped the branches, automatically prickley burs far from the reach of human hands burst open. A rain of dark brown nuts covered the ground. Joseph and John accompanied by Mamma Margherita gathered the freshly fallen chestnuts. In a land where poverty was prevalent these chestnuts were a vital source of nourishment. Once home, the boys helped peel and string the nuts. Then the garland was hung in the loft to dry.

During February and March when food was scarce, the nuts would be soaked, boiled, and consumed as soup or vegetable or sometimes on great feasts as dessert. In November when the nuts were still fresh there was no greater pleasure than to sit before the dying embers and hear the crackle and smell roasted chestnuts.

Mamma Margherita did her best to keep her sons tidy and clean. This was not easy considering the scarcity of water. She saw that they were dressed according to the simple standards of a peasant. Out of her deep respect for the Sabbath, she used the finest homespun and fabricated stylish suits. She was convinced that clothing would convey the inward joy and the great respect that should be shown to the Lord's day.

They usually walked to Murialdo on Sundays. The parish church of Castelnuovo was five kilometers distant, too far away to go for an ordinary Sunday. There was always far too much work to attend to before leaving home. Murialdo had a tiny church. To reach it they had to walk through a dense thicket of trees. Numerous peasants would stop to greet the Bosco family and compliment Margherita on her handsome children and their well dressed clothes.

Margherita knew her children were good looking. The two youngest were more like cherubs with their heads of brown curls. Even the older lad, difficult as he could be with the members of his own family, was extremely popular with outsiders. Margherita smiled and accepted with grace the compliments showered on her. To the children she said: "Why do you believe I take such pains to dress you specially well on Sundays? Because I want you to remember always that first and foremost comes your soul. It must always remain beautiful. Exterior coverings do not make a man. If you sully your soul with sin, you have achieved absolutely nothing. Strive to live, so that God can always praise you. Pay no attention to the stupid compliments paid by men. Human praise most often leads to pride. God cannot bear pride nor ambition."

After Sunday Mass had been said the parish priest kept the children inside the church for religious instruction. The men always congregated in little knots outside the graveyard. The women stood in groups near the church door busily gossiping. Margherita never joined the grown-ups. She stayed in the back listening respectfully to the instruction given by the curate of Murialdo. The catechism was repeated, recited, explained. Then Margherita escorted her sons straight home. She had no time for idle gossip. Her life was filled with far too many important decisions and work to be accomplished. On the way back, she would question them on the sermon and their catechism, expecting intelligent replies. Of course, the boys were invariably surprised at her stock of information. Their mother, though she could neither read nor write, had accumulated wisdom that had come from a people who for generations had been obliged to depend on their memories for everything.

The Sunday meal was frugal but healthy. When it was over Margherita divided the blessed bread which had been taken to Mass that morning and blessed at the Offertory. This was passed around and was the only dessert. Sunday after Sunday the same routine took place. The Bosco boys really lived as if the Sabbath was the Lord's day. A day of rest, a day in which God had been given the biggest share, a day in which body and soul recuperated.

To John, the Sabbath was his special day. He congregated the village urchins around his home. He played games, entertained them. For the benefit of whoever had not attended Mass, he repeated the sermon. Thus though still very young, John acquired a name for himself as entertainer and preacher.

Chapter 7

Age of Reason to Eleven

John in later years, was often to refer to this period of his life. It was one in which he and his mother suffered intensely, yet in which they became almost inseparable. It was one in which she taught him how to make his first Confession. As a result of her way of teaching, he himself in later years was to impart to countless children her wonderful technique. To him, for the rest of his life, confession would not be a gruesome, soul searching affair, but the contrition of a penitent soul longing for pardon, the making amends, the longing for peace.

"How well I can recall that it was my mother herself who prepared me for my first Confession. She accompanied me to the church at Murialdo. Once there, she led the way going first to confession. Only after she had recommended me to the father confessor, did she lead me into the confessional. When it was all over, it was my mother who helped me with a suitable thanksgiving. We prayed together aloud. Mamma was to continue with this same procedure each time I went to confess my sins, until she was quite certain that I was fully capable of making a fervent confession all alone."

Sundays, Anthony was usually out of sorts. He complained that brother John was getting far too much publicity. He was far too popular with the village urchins. He wanted a stop put to his playing the fool. Why should he waste time? Why should he become an athlete? He had never spent any time at sports. Of what use was an acrobat in the family? He was wasting time. Let him flex his muscles pitching hay, carrying loads. No, John was really disgracing the Bosco name. He was becoming a worthless magician.

John was not a person who gave up under attack. Besides, he had secured his mother's approval and asked her permission. He assured Anthony that he would not move a finger without her consent. She knew his tricks. She observed them. It was she who in fact had encouraged him. He was doing no harm, and Mamma had not stopped him. Why was Anthony so very unfair? Was not Sunday a day of rest and relaxation? Surely having fun, making people laugh, exercising one's muscles, even performing tricks was not sinful.

Even if John tried, he could not have stopped, he had acting in his blood. Ever since he could toddle, he had been full of pranks and laughter. Mamma Margherita loved this spirit in her John. She herself was prone to laughter, to enjoy a good joke, she wanted happiness in her home. Yet, for a long time, had it not been for little John, life in the Bosco home would have become unbearable, especially with Anthony always finding fault. How often John's spirit of repartee came to the rescue of his mother. How many sarcastic, remarks meant to wound, were cleverly twisted by John, so that they even became funny. Many a tragic incident was brushed off lightly by the family clown.

The tricks, the gymnastics, the acrobatic stunts had started at an early date. Ever since irrepressible John, as a tiny fellow, had accompanied his mother to market or county fairs, entranced by the circus performers, magicians, and wandering minstrels, he had stood to watch them simply spellbound. His lively imagination had helped him. He made friends with these troubadours. They taught him their tricks. He easily retained the acrobatic feats seen, then going home he would spend hours rehearsing them. He would not stop till he had perfected his calisthenics; over and over he would tumble, turn, stand on his head, stand on his hands, lift heavy weights. John never rested till he had acquired the muscle and brawn required to become a first-rate performer.

Nothing ever took place without Mamma Margherita knowing what was going on. She could so easily have stopped him at an early age from clowning. His bouncing exuberance, his keen interest, his incessant demands on her time would all have been a legitimate excuse for calling a halt to all this nonsense. She had seen this tendency of becoming a magician and acrobat grow. Year by year she had watched him persist in his exercises. The poor fellow had so few pleasures. When at home, he was so very often in the way of his older brother Anthony. Mamma Margherita found real pleasure in his happiness. At least he had an outlet for pent up emotions and wholesome fun.

On rainy days, when there was no outdoor farming possible, and the chores at home had been finished, John was invited by neighboring peasants to perform in haylofts or barns, to John no doors were closed. His knack of entertaining, of keeping people amused and happy made him the most popular person in the countryside. On sunny Sundays, when the weather was nice, it was outside of his own cottage he gave his shows. There was a field to the right of his Becchi home, where there stood a pear tree and a cherry tree. He borrowed his mother's laundry rope, tied it to the two trees for his tight-rope performances. As a rule the curtain- raiser was breath taking. To hold his audience spell-bound he had a number of tricks up his sleeve. He had practiced each till he was a perfect comedian. He changed water into wine. He juggled eggs and instead of six produced two dozen. He pulled rabbits from hats, multiplied baby chicks, or plucked silver coins from noses and ears. The family hen was hypnotized, once asleep she was then brought back to life, midst the excitement of the onlookers.

During the tensest moment, when the audience 'was spell- bound, there was an interlude. Quietly he requested that they all join him in prayer. When a few of the stragglers wandered off, he would shout: "Come back! come back! You cannot see the finale nor attend another performance unless you stay and join us in saying the rosary."

John could sway crowds. At times there were several hundred who laughed and shouted with joy at the mimic. He was excellent at pantomime. He could clown, crack the queerest jokes, yet he always knew how far to go and above all when to stop. People coming from distant villages, walking along the right of way that led through the Bosco farm, would stop and watch and ask those of the locality: "But who is this talented 'youngster?"

The villagers would say: "He is the little son of Mamma Margherita." During his youth he was never known otherwise than just as Margherita's son.

Mlargherita watched with joy this wholesome recreation. She would stare from her cottage window or even stand amongst the crowd. One Sunday afternoon, after the lad had accomplished an outstanding acrobatic feat, she turned with pride to a neighbor: "Tell me Catherina what do you think? I wonder what my son will be?"

Catherina Agagliati replied in her native Piedmontese dialect: "If your John keeps this up, no doubt one fine day, he will have the whole world talking, and even the devil himself."

If John's childhood was a very sad one, and as he grew older become more and more difficult, it was wholly the fault of his elder brother Anthony. Things at home became increasingly worse from the age of nine to fifteen. Poor little John suffered greatly. Anthony was horribly jealous; he stubbornly failed to see that God had really marked out John for a specific vocation. Time after time the mother had to step between the brothers; she had to prevent the big one from beating up the youngest one. There was ten years difference between the lads, and Anthony simply could not bear the sight of little John, because he did not follow closely to the pattern designated as the usual one for every peasant. John was the one upon whom Anthony vented his anger, while Joseph fell into the conventional pattern carrying out all the farming duties imposed on him.

Deep in her heart, Mamma Margherita was utterly convinced that her John was destined for something else than farming. She wanted her son to go to school, she longed to see him fully educated. Anthony being twenty, and by then considering himself the head of the house, now insisted on being consulted for everything. Margherita acquiesced; she felt it was good experience; she yielded to the local custom. Her Anthony had a right to express his opinion, he should exert his influence as eldest. She in turn, now that he had come of age, stepped back. Once she did that life became unbelievably hard.

Anthony shouted and raged. He ranted that John could not be excused from farming. John was destined like the rest of the Boscos to dig. Anthony had never been to school, nor would he ever permit a single member of his family to waste time in idle learning.

In later years, John in regretfully speaking of these early years said:. "When I was nine my mother wished to send me to school at Castelnuovo. Unfortunately the distance from our Becchi home to that neighboring town was a full five kilometers distant. There were two unsurmountable obstacles, the distance and the added expense of room and board which we were far too poor to pay."

Anthony would not hear of John going to Castelnuovo for study. He adamantly refused giving any consent. Margherita, who was very much upset, and who refused this time to take a no, went to Capriglio to visit her family. Being one; who as a rule managed her own affairs, and never seeking any help, they were all astonished and realized how serious was the situation. Margherita in discussing the matter attracted the attention of her sister who was housekeeper for the local curate. Not only did she care for the rectory, but she kept the tiny school clean and cooked all his meals. It was this sister, who suggested that Margherita discuss the matter with Don Joseph Delacqua.

Fortunately for John arrangements could be made. Margherita spoke to her aged parents who were only too happy to offer John room and board. From their house he could walk to school daily and learn his lessons.

Bitterly, Anthony gave his consent. He resentfully insisted that John could only leave home after all work on on the farm was finished. He thought a bit and named a date. At the very earliest, John might leave on All Saints, but not a day before, and he would have to be back in time to help with the spring ploughing on the feast of the Annunciation.

With joy and great thankfulness in her heart, proud Margherita led her youngest over the familiar path to Capriglio. The seven kilometers which usually seemed such a long distance away now became short. The would-be student could live with his grand-- parents for nothing, so his studies would be no extra burden on the family budget. Unfortunately she would only see him on holidays, the distance was too far to be covered daily. Mamma Margherita knew she would miss her ray of sunshine, yet she gladly made the sacrifice of not having him home with her. He would stay away from that first of November, which was All Saints, to Our Lady's feast on the twenty-fifth of March.

During the many months spent under the roof of his maternal grandparents little John crammed incessantly. Kindly Don Delacqua took more than usual interest in his brilliant student. Pupil and teacher poured over books. Hours were spent reading, spelling, and writing. John made the most amazing progress. He could with the greatest of ease memorize the rudimentary fundamentals of his language. By the time he was ready to return home, he could read remarkably well, so well in fact, he would hold grown-up audiences simply spellbound for hours on end. His amazed grandparents, his uncles and aunts had listened to him and shook their heads and prophesied great things for his future. No book was too difficult to read, no subject too hard to master.

With the first spring swallows, John regretfully packed his books to return home. Though he worked incessantly in the fields with the most tedious ploughing, though he carried out all the orders given him on the farm, yet he never dared pick up a book in the presence of his eldest brother. Anthony had threatened that if he ever found a book on the premises, he would burn it.

John who loved books passionately, knew they were far too precious to be burned, so he was obliged to wait till the family had all gone to bed. Then, candle in hand, the little boy would sit by the kitchen table with his lessons. He would study into the wee hours of dawn. On one such occasion, weary and distressed at the constant oppression, he fell asleep over his books; with his head reclining on his arm, he had a strange dream.

John's dream was so realistic, so vivid, that all through life he was never to forget the slightest detail. He saw very close to his home, in the field to the left of his cottage, hundreds of children, using the most horrible words of blasphemy and fighting among themselves. John heard his name being called. A voice told him to place himself at the head of this crowd of unruly ruffians. Amazed he looked about. He was afraid. The same voice told him he was to convert these countless children, convert them not by blows, but by becoming their friend and showing them kindness.

John protested when he was told he would have to teach these children the ugliness of sin, and the value of virtue. Fearfully he asked: "Who are you?"

The bewildered lad was told: "I am the Son of Her, whom your mother has taught you to greet three times each day."

Of course John knew that Mamma Margherita had always insisted that no matter where they were or what they were doing, they should stop, morning, noon, and evening at the ringing of the Angelus bell, fall on their knees, and pray to the Mother of God. John was fearful. So he retorted: "My mother has forbidden me to talk to strangers. I have to ask her permission to talk with you. Tell me your name, so I can ask her?"

At that moment a beautiful lady made herself seen. Bathed in radiant light he heard her say: "This is your field of action. This is where you will work. In due time my son you will fully understand what this is all about."

When John awoke from his dream he could hardly contain himself for joy. The dream had been so beautiful, it had made him so happy. When the family came down he could hardly wait, before he told them what he had dreamed. With characteristic naiveness he gave the word by word detail.

His brothers merely laughed; they made fun of him. Joseph suggested that perhaps it was a sign that one day he would own a huge herd of sheep and goats.

Anthony with his usual sneer and shrug of the shoulders felt sure that it was an ugly foreboding. One day he would head a robber band or become a chief of brigands.

Mamma Margherita to whom John had confided ever since his fifth year his desire to become a priest, simply suggested that it was a visible sign that God had destined her son to become a priest.

The old grandmother sadly shook her head. Though she could neither read nor write, she was a very deeply religious woman with much wisdom in things spiritual. She put an end to all guessing: "Boys, it is wisest to disregard all dreams and pay absolutely no attention to them."

John himself felt that probably his old grandmother was right, that her judgment was the most correct. He put aside the dream, though the memory of its sweetness was to haunt him till the end of his life. In fact, later on in years, dreams of this very sort were to be guideposts to him. He would awaken, refreshed, and knowing exactly what to do in the strangest, amazing fashion.

John with childish glee had looked forward, all summer during the heavy field work, to the months when once again he could pick up his books and spend all day studying. Great was his disappointment, for when All Souls came around again he found out he could not return to Capriglio. The stubborn, unintelligent anger of Anthony at the mere mention of study became impossible to overcome.

John, who had expected to start on his Latin that winter, found the outlook very dismal. He doubted very much if he would get to Capriglio to resume his studies. His fears were correct, being too young to have a voice in the decision, John stayed home. Anthony's vitriolic attack and his vehement objections, forced Mamma Margherita to change her mind. For the sake of family peace, since they all had to live under the same roof, it was essential that she give in to the narrow-minded ideas of her step-son.

Mamma Margherita suffered untold anguish. Deep in her heart she was convinced that her John was destined for something entirely different. Yet her hands were tied, because Anthony's resentment grew more acrid. She tried her best to smooth things over. She was blessed with a sense of humor, this and her tact enabled her to still hold the reins and keep her boys together. Margherita procured the necessary text books at Castelnuovo. She frequented the bookshop there getting what was necessary so he could continue his reading. When the household had gone to bed, she would slip John a few extra candles. From her hope-chest, where she had hidden his books, she would give him what he needed. That was how John was able to make up for the hours lost in field work and continue the studies he required.

Of course by day there was no question of study, Anthony kept far too jealous a watch. He saw to it that not a moment was wasted on books. floor John was miserable. He realized he was making no headwav. and for a while it really looked as if he were never going to become anything else but a farmer.

Mamma Margherita, who came from farming stock, loved the soil. In many respects, she felt as keenly about the farm as Anthonv did. To her it was bread and butter, the past and her future. She bore no grudge against the land, only she felt that John was made for something entirely different. He was not like the rest of the family. God had destined him for something else.

Margherita felt the cruel blow that had befallen the aspiration of her son. She realized that his ideal of becoming a priest was being shattered. Yet there were moments of great despondency, when poverty and Anthony's cruelty seemed insurmountable. This became a cause of disagreements and contentions - the real cause of differences between herself and her oldest. Anthony put his authority into power by sheer brute force. He frightened her; he made her younger sons suffer.

Mamma Margherita said little. She knew that if any child were capable of making his first Communion her youngest was ready. His maturity was amazing. She felt John needed this spiritual assistance, this union of creature to God. She wanted Christ to enter that unsullied soul so as to bring the lad consolation and strength and help. Unfortunately Piedmont was imbued by Jansenistic theories. God had been made into a God of justice but not one of love. People were rarely permitted to approach the sacraments freely, Holy Communion once monthly was all that was allowed. Children received Christ into their souls only at twelve or thirteen years of age. Margherita felt differently. She received Holy Communion weekly, without this aid she could never have surmounted the difficulties confronting her. She felt that John needed this important help. He needed to learn more about the love of God. She wanted him to make his first Communion when he was ten and not delay any longer.

With this idea in mind, Mamma Margherita made several visits to the aged pastor of her parish church in Castelnuovo. Don Sismondo received her very coldly. He told her that unfortunately he could not grant her request. He boldly informed her that he would make no exceptions. Her son John was far too immature and young at the age of ten to make his first Communion. Besides how could the child of a Becchi peasant be expected to know his catechism? First of all she lived ten kilometers away - the distance was too great for him to come for daily instruction, and if he did, he would hardly be able to grasp the full meaning.

Don Sismondo had forgotten when he brushed aside the petition of Mamma Margherita that she was of sturdy stock. Determined as the granite mountains of the distance, Margherita would never give up or give in. She had already endured one severe shock, the prohibition of Anthony which prevented her son from continuing his studies in Capriglio. Now this was a cruel disappointment.

Since John could read, she went to the curate of Capriglio. Margherita interested the kindly Don Delacqua and he agreed that there was nothing to prevent John from studying his catechism. He gladly provided the necessary books. Margherita was determined that since he was cut off from attending the preparatory catechetical instructions, he would have these same lessons right at home. There was no alternative. Anthony could not prevent her from giving the lessons. Should he begin to make trouble, she would lay down the law. Besides John was entitled to the same as both he and Joseph had had in the past. Only this time, Mamma Margherita had a student who could read to her what was written in the books, and they would cover much ground. Mamma Margherita saw to it that daily John spent hours pouring over his doctrine books. She permitted no disturbance. She was as insistent as any teacher could have been that he know, and would know word by word everything he read. With John's prodigious memory this was easy. He had a retentive photographic mind.

The new religious teacher and her pupil made remarkable strides. Once finished, the preparatory course was carefully reviewed. No mother or son had ever worked quite so hard. The final instructions were given to the best of her ability. Then only after she was positive that the pupil could face the barrage of questions and give the right answers, did she return to Castelnuovo.

Margherita Bosco entered the name of John Bosco amongst the list of those eligible for the final religious doctrine class. She put him down as having finished the preliminary and preparatory classes. During the forty days of Lent the daily instructions would be given by the pastor.

A cruel regime for a lad of eleven. The long walk during the inclement weather of February and March covering eight miles on foot daily. John just went and turned up for class. Not prone to do much talking about the rejections of life, his mother had merely issued orders. John had carried them out. She was quite sure, that once her son had been questioned, and heard, no one in their right senses would turn him down. His intelligent replies would win for him the coveted prize.

The same Don Sismondo, who before had so coldly brushed aside the pleading mother, was amazed that the smallest of the class and the youngest should really know his catechism, and know it well. Apparently the boy from Becchi was quite remarkable because not only was his attendance perfect, but he passed the stiff oral test without a single mistake. He might be two or three years younger than the others of the class, but not one knew their religion half as well, nor answered quite as intelligently as did the peasant boy. Once the finals were taken, the priest informed John that though he still objected, because he was too young, and really should be kept waiting another two years, he would make an exception. He would allow him to receive his first Communion with the class. Since the date was not final, he would talk to his mother about those arrangements.

During that Lent of 1826 Mamma Margherita had been here, and there, and everywhere. To prevent Anthony from grumbling too much at the prolonged absence of John, she doubled her work. She even managed to get to Castelnuovo more often than usual. Though Thursday was market-day, she used the excuse to slip over to town accompanying John. The pretext that he required a little more coaching was really an excuse to be near him as much as possible during his momentous period of preparation. She pried him with questions, opened his mind, made sure above all that his heart understood what was to happen. Nothing was to be overlooked, since it had been purely up to her, she would see that later on in life, he need never have regrets that his mother had not done her utmost in laying the right foundations.

For years Margherita had walked those eight miles. Whenever she went to town she paid a visit to the Blessed Sacrament, it was so easy, the church was right on her way to the marketplace where she sold her produce. To her, talking to God was a necessity, to visit Him a pleasure. Three times that Lent she accompanied her John to confession. Three times she wished to make perfectly sure that her boy knew what he was doing. All of this was quite contrary to the spirit of the times. Going to confession or Holy Communion had become a sort of yearly institution, but not to the zealous peasant of Becchi.

During that penitential season Margherita had frequently slipped into the back of the church, she had noticed that there was little discipline. She felt that with all that chatter and commotion recollection would be quite impossible. The religious significance of a first Communion had begun to lose its religious meaning. Parents and close relatives used the day as an excuse for a huge feast. They made as much fuss over the event as if it were a wedding or a christening. To Mamma Margherita these parties were repugnant. She felt that something as purely spiritual as was this great moment in the life of her child should be kept on a spiritual plane, not turned into a secular festivity.

When Don Sismondo finally sent for the widow, to tell her John had been accepted and would make his first Communion that Easter, Margherita in her own quiet manner, which this time broached no contradiction told the pastor she had one further request. Since John was qualified to make his first Communion. she preferred to have him make it privately, instead of with the group. Don Sismondo knew better this time, he did not refuse.

Things on the Becchi farm went on just as usual. On the eve of the great day she insisted on a spirit of deep recollection, which was to be accompanied by strict silence. She forbade John conversing with any member of the household.

March 26th. the morning of the great day, no one interfered. Mother and son walked recollectedly back to Castelnuovo. With Joseph accompanying them they made a fervent preparation. The three knelt side by side at the altar rail. Together the Boscos bowed their heads. then made their thanksgiving in a low voice.

Don Sismondo slipped into the sanctuary greatly touched and edified by the devotion of this mother and her children. With fervor, he began to say aloud a number of prayers of thanksgiving, which he asked that they repeat after him. Then going up he congratulated John.

Never had the child tasted such supreme happiness, nor known such spiritual consolation. All that was necessary for his mother was to look on the radiant joy which bathed the face of her son. Christ had made up for the years of anguish. In a moment all the pains and bitter disappointments had vanished.

On their way home, Margherita with tears in her eyes said: "My dear little John I am convinced that Our dear Lord has really and truly taken possession of your heart. Promise Him to keep it always very pure till the end of your life. Remain close to Him. Never sully your soul by sacrilege. To keep from falling into sin. go often to confession; go often, very often to Holy Communion. Be obedient, never forget your catechism, do what you can to frequently hear good sermons, but above all avoid bad company as you would avoid the plague."

John did all he could to carry out the advice of his mother. He took her pious counsel to heart. He carried out her recommendations. He gradually found that obedience, which he had found so very repugnant, became easier.

Mamma Margherita had insisted that on the twenty-sixth, even though it be a week day, John would be excused from all manual labor. He was free to pray and read to his heart's content. No one was to give him any kind of work.

Chapter 8.

Heartaches

A few weeks after his first Communion, it really looked as if at long last John's most cherished dream would materialize. The possibilities of his studying Latin, in preparation for the priesthood finally came within his reach.

The year of 1826 had been decreed by the Pope as a Jubilee Year. Hundreds of thousands of pilgrims flocked to Rome to gain the indulgences and graces. Since only a few could journey to the Eternal City, the Jubilee was soon extended to all of Christendom. The Turin diocese had decreed, that from March to September, the parishes would have very special ceremonies, so that all the faithful could participate.

The Bosco family living nearer to the Buttigliera church than to the parish church of Castelnuovo decided to follow the religious exercises there. They were strenuous, especially for poor farming folk. Twice daily to church, mornings at dawn, and nights to listen to two more sermons. Anthony begrudgingly consented that John and Joseph attend some of the sermons. They took turns with Mamma Margherita, so that not all would be absent from field work at the same time, and that there was someone at home to take care of Anthony's needs.

One night in April, John was lost in a crowd of peasants all heading towards Becchi. The walk was uphill and steep. The lad on seeing a priest went up to the white-headed man and kissed his hand, bidding the kindly padre a good evening. He was Don Calosso, a septuagenarian from Chieri who had been assigned to the little church of Murialdo where he replaced the absentee curate. Nightly he walked the long distance to Butigliera to gain the Jubilee.

Half in jest, half in seriousness, the jolly priest chided John whose curly head fascinated him: "Well my boy, where do you come from? Have you also attended the mission?"

"Yes, reverend father, I went to hear the sermons." Smiling but incredulous, the old priest asked: "How much were you really able to understand? I believe that your mother could in all probability have given you a far better sermon, more suited to your state. Is that not so my lad?"

"Mamma mia always gives me good advice and her sermons are many, yet that does not prevent me from going to church. I really enjoy listening to these missionaries. I am quite sure that I understand what they say. It really is not over my head."

Don Calosso asked him if he would tell him what had impressed him most. He was all the more amazed when this peasant boy repeated almost word for word the entire sermon, just as if he had studied it by heart! Such a prodigious memory, such enthusiasm, filled the priest with amazement as well as curiosity. He questioned John and learned he wanted to study so as to become a priest. He learned John had no father, his mother was a poor widow. She approved of his aspirations, only his older brother Anthony would not hear of study.

Somewhat surprised, he inquired: "Why would your brother object; how can he interfere?"

"Anthony has never gone to school. When he had a chance to go, he refused. Now he claims that we are peasants, we cannot afford to waste time in useless study. If I could only go to school, I am sure I would study hard. I would never waste a moment of time."

"What makes you want to be a priest?"

The great brown eyes of John peered into those of the old priest. "I want to become a priest so that I can help my companions. I would instruct them in our religion. These boys are not really wicked, but they will soon be very bad, because they have parents who never pay any attention to them."

Don Calosso was impressed by his frankness. When they reached the cross-roads he said: "Have courage, I will try to think of some means, so that you will be able to carry on with your studies. Come next Sunday, bring your mother along, perhaps we can arrange something."

That following Sunday, John and Mamma Margherita went to Mass at Murialdo. John acted as server, then went to the rectory with palpitating heart. There he introduced his mother.

Mamma Margherita explained the obstacles that lay in the path of his studying. Don Calosso suggested that these could be easily overcome. He himself would teach John Latin daily. One Latin class, then he could return to his farming. Homework could be done in between or at night.

Surprisingly enough, Anthony made no objection to the new plan of Don Calosso. He merely shrugged his shoulders. After all, the class would not start till the summer harvest was over. Work on the farm would be over.

Now began an era of blissful happiness. Daily John served the old priest's mass, daily he had a lesson in Italian and Latin. All Sunday was spent in company of Don Calosso who took an interest in this brilliant-minded lad.

Mamma Margherita was also deeply grateful. To her the year of 1826 seemed the beginning of a new era. Now at long last, her John had an opportunity, a God-given one at that, to carry on with his studies. Ever since grandmother Bosco had died, the great burden of caring for an invalid had been alleviated. She could now turn that help towards John.

Nonnina Bosco had died in her sleep on the llth of February. She was eighty years old, and Margherita had cared for her during fourteen years, without ever complaining or grumbling, happy to be of service to so wonderful a mother-in-law. The two women had been inseparable. Though living during all those years under the same roof, there had been complete harmony and deep affection. Margherita had provided for all her needs, had cared for her as if she had been her own mother. She deeply mourned one she loved so much, yet rejoiced she had finally ended her term of suffering here below. That extra time, and that added affection, she now lavished on her youngest.

From time to time Don Calosso sent for John's mother. He congratulated her on her son's extraordinary memory. He was a most exceptional student. She should do all in her power to help John finish his studies. There was nothing the widow would have liked more, yet at home, her eldest son Anthony was becoming more and more difficult, more and more resentful over the loss of time.

John sensing trouble did his best to avoid his brother. Or when they did meet he knew it was wisest to keep his study program to himself. He would learn walking to and from Murialdo. He used every idle moment in memorizing his declensions. Once in the fields he would hide his beloved Latin under a haystack, then he would shoulder the pickaxe or spend hours breaking ground with a shovel, or do the most arduous labor under the eagle supervision of Anthony.

As soon as the farmhands stopped for their morning. or midafternoon break, John picked up his book again. Again back home, during supper, while others ate, John had his nose glued to books. Evenings, he sat up with his inkwell writing out his pages of composition.

Then, one fine day, brother Anthony decided to halt all further studies. For all times, this stupid mania was to stop. He assembled his family. Mamma Margherita, Joseph and John were lined up before him. The ultimatum given. If John intended to remain under his roof, the paternal roof, he had better cease at once being a book-worm!

Mamma Margherita defended her youngest. She promised to double her work in the fields, she would replace him everywhere, no one would miss him. Besides, had she not less housework to do? Nonnina had died, so she could easily give him this break and let him study.

Nothing satisfied Anthony, who puffed up with pride, who looked upon his own physical strength as all important, insisted study was nonsense. "I want no more grammar in this house. All the book knowledge in the world will not make a man out of you. Look at yourself! Are you not small, puny, and helpless? Look at me! I have grown strong and healthy without the aid of books. I have not glued my nose to classics."

John was upset and furious: "That's beside the point. I will prove how wrong you are. Our donkey's stronger still, and bigger, and he has never studied either."

Anthony, now twenty-four, his jealousy turned to hatred, would have killed his younger brother. Fortunately John was fleet of foot, and being small, escaped.

John gave way, but his submission did not do him much good. His elder brother seemed to sense the vocation ever alive in him. He raged with the determination to stifle it, no humiliation, no persecution was spared. He considered himself head of the family, the Bosco's small belongings were his, he could order them about, he would do as he alone wished. His scathing sarcasm was such, that after the last scene there could be no peace.

On Sunday when John had the right to do as he pleased, his brother would throw his books out of the house. He insisted John no longer had the right to live there. He wanted to know by what authority he was excused from being like the rest of them? They had to live off a diet of polenta so as to support his stupid studies. Why should they be forced to sweat? Why should they plough? Why should they bear the burdens of a would-be professor? If he insisted, let him carry his own financial burdens.

Mamma Margherita pleaded, she bit the corner of her apron trying to control her sobs: "Would Anthony now all of a sudden undo the hopes of all these years? Could he not put up with just a few inconveniences? Would he not be fair and give John a fair trial?"

For a while the heartfelt plea of the mother succeeded. Peace was once more restored within the home. The sycamore trees stretched their bare arms to heaven, the autumn leaves fluttered to the ground, the fruit trees were barren. Joseph was contented to spend his few free hours as huntsman, a gun on his back looking for wild hare. When he shot and skinned them, he hung them to dry on the eaves of his home. The number of skins told of his great success. But little John was no longer interested in hunting or even fishing. He had his eyes glued to his books during free time.

Margherita was sorrowful. That brave little woman who once had been afraid of nothing, now knew what it meant to fear. She had been the one who in storms had consoled her boys. She had lifted up their hearts and minds to God when times were good, and when times were bad. She had been the one who taught them to praise the Good God, because He gave them crops, and land, and a sturdy home. Could anything have been lovelier than Becchi, a home where they had prayed together, where they had worked together, where they had stayed together? Now times were different.

Christmas came. Though John still continued his classes daily at Murialdo with Don Calosso, he was listless. Physically, mentally, he was beaten. He could not endure to see his mother smart under the insults that were heaped on her because of his aspirations.

Then one day Mamma Margherita proposed a solution. To her kind. heart it meant agony, but she knew there was now no alternative but sacrifice.

One day in February, while the snow kept the Boscos indoors Anthony became more violent and vicious than ever. Margherita signalled John to follow her up the steep stairway to her small bedroom.

"John, life is no longer possible here. God cannot bless a disunited family. Your brother Anthony is risking damnation. There is no use your living here, it means the confiscation of your books, the ruin of your future plans. I feel deep within my soul that you must go. There remains no other alternative. You would have to promise Anthony to give up all studies, I am sure he would not otherwise permit you to stay. That is too great a price to pay. You are thirteen now. I have taught you to look out for yourself. I am sure that somewhere else, on some other farm, you will find work, you will find congenial people who will understand and help you. Go, my boy, go because I know God will guard you. Try the village of Moncucco, where the farmer Moglia lives. He is rich, has a big farm, perhaps he will give you work. Tell him I sent you. I know this is the wrong season for farmers to hire help, but if you stay, I fear your brother might kill you in one of his rages. God be with you."

John went tearfully, the parting was heartbreaking. The lad slipped out into the snow-bedecked countryside. His mother had tied into a weatherproof sack two shirts, a few handkerchiefs, his precious prayerbook, and he had added his precious collection of books. In his pocket she had placed a new rosary, and into his icy, cold hand, she had laid a few coins. She clasped him close to her in silence, made the sign of the cross on his forehead and weeping waved goodbye.

Margherita stood there a long, long time, watching as she heard the crunching of ice and snow. She wiped her tears, as she looked into the horizon. The flurries of snow predicted another storm before the night would fall. She prayed that her John would reach his destination. For her that February of the year 1828 seemed unending and unforgettable. She went back to her work a sorrowful woman. John seemed to have passed out of her life, yet he was everywhere. Everything she looked at, everything she touched brought back poignant memories. He had been the life and light of, the home. He had been the source of laughter. His originality had kept them thinking. He had kept them all young by his pranks and fun.

John knocked at the door of several farms. The snow was on the ground. It was February. No one hired help in mid-winter. John was tense, yet not too fearful. There was a horrible void within his soul. Yet he knew that since his mother had told him to go, all would be well. She meant it for the best, she would be praying for him. He put his hand into his pocket, the evening air was icy, his fingers blue from cold. He fingered his rosary, he prayed. John finally reached the village of Moncucco. He knew the Moglia farm. He had been there with his mother. But the wealthy farmer insisted he had no work. If John wished work he could return in spring, when the swallows were in the sky, not a blizzard. John pleaded. He pleaded so eloquently that the big boss changed his mind, and when he did his wife and children all rejoiced.

John stayed on, the condition that he be satisfied as a stableboy. For over a year, he did all sorts of jobs. He was so useful that everyone wanted him to help them. He was here, and there and everywhere. In his spare time, he studied, he even taught the Moglia children and those of the entire neighborhood their catechism. He held them just as spellbound as he had the peasants of Becchi and Murialdo by his tricks and acrobatic stunts. Don Cottino, the village priest was so delighted at the total transformation of the youth of his parish, that he gave John permission to use the parish hall for classes and even his performances.

Every Sunday John went to Holy Communion. On Saturdays he asked the farmer's wife for special permission to go to Mass. Now Dorothea Moglia was a bit suspicious about these early Saturday morning expeditions. On several occasions she followed him. It was most unusual to go to Mass on week days, still more to receive Holy Communion. Great had been her amazement on seeing the devout farmhand praying, and going to the altar rail. One day she asked him: "Why do you always go to Communion on Saturdays?"

John being extremely shy about his own personal devotion said nothing at first. Finally she begged him till he told her. He had made a promise to his mother to keep close to Our Lady. Since he hoped one day to be a priest, he wished to keep close to Our Lord and His Blessed Mother.

Now the Moglias were peasants of great means. They had money and vast lands. Farmer Moglia knew how desperately poor the Bosco family was. On learning from his wife, Dorothea, what John wished to become, he advised John to choose a profession that would be less expensive. Only rich men could aspire to the priesthood, why it would cost all of ten thousand lire. He could work all his life, and yet never get that amount of money. He'd better think of marrying some rich farmer's daughter and forget all about his books.

Not in the least downhearted, John laughed. He would trust in God helping him, he would continue to study all the books given him by Don Calosso. One day he would become a priest and say Mass for them. Luigi Moglia, not in the least religious, was impressed. Just as he had been impressed at the farmhand kneeling in the furrow when the Angelus rang.

One fine day as John was watching the cattle in the distant field, he saw a familiar figure. It was his uncle, Michael Occhiena, who came to him and greeted him affectionately. He had been talking to Mamma Margherita. Until that day, she had not told him of her troubles. He asked his nephew how he liked it, if he were satisfied with his work?

John opened up his heart. He told him that the Moglias were very wonderful people, he was happy, as happy as could be under the circumstances. Yet, he missed his mother, his home, above all he was greatly worried. How could he now that he was fifteen ever reach the priesthood? In the village of Moncucco there was no possibility of his attending school. As long as he was a stable-hand he'd have to finally give up his childhood aspirations.

Uncle Michael had made money raising cattle. He was now on his way to Chieri. He planned to take the stagecoach at the next turn of the road. He advised John to talk things over with the Moglias, and to meet him that evening at Becchi. He would talk to his sister and see what arrangements might be made for further study.

No sooner than done, John rushed his cattle back. He talked things over with the farmer and his wife. The Moglias had no intention of letting him go. Yet in his heart, rich Luigi Moglia knew that they had very little to offer John but work and more work. Sadly they agreed, it would be to his advantage to return to Becchi, he had after all a very fine mother who really must need him.

John went to the attic, right under the roof, to a tiny, very tiny cupboard. This had been his bedroom. In the summer he had roasted, in the winter he had frozen. There had been barely space to move in, yet there he had been blissfully happy, free to study with people who loved and looked up to him.

Joyfully, John approached the Becchi home. No matter what the sorrows of the past, it was still home. He could barely wait to greet his wonderful mother. On seeing him, Mamma Margherita warmly embraced her John, but on learning he had come with the intention of staying, she was fearful. Anthony had really not improved, deep in his heart he was resentful, she dared not face him alone. She could not tell what he might do in a fit of temper, it would be advisable to remain hidden till Uncle Michael arrived.

Should Anthony see John, he would suspect she had planned things, and that would make matters even worse. Quickly John was hidden in a hedge away from the house. Poor John was miserable. His heart was sick, his body ached from the biting cold, the hours of waiting seemed unending, the uncertainty of what the morrow would bring made him grit his teeth and pray

Pray as he never had before, pray that his Madonna would help, just once more, help him so he could finally stay home. After many hours, twilight and then the back-drop of night came

suddenly, and with the night came the sound of steps crunching on the snow. John knew it was his uncle. Together they entered the lighted cottage as if no prearranged scene had been enacted. Anthony taken completely by surprise even showed himself amenable. For once he really was afraid. Uncle Michael took things into his own hands. He minced no words. Joseph and John had equal rights to share and share alike the home he had taken over. If he did not like the idea, then the family patrimony would be taken to court. John and Joseph being minors, it would be the court, not Anthony who would decide who was to live in Becchi, and run things.

The mere idea was distasteful to Anthony. He did not want a part of Becchi, he wanted full control and entire management. There was no alternative, John had to be welcomed back to the bosom of the family. He would have to tolerate the presence of his hated younger brother.

Uncle Michael clearly stipulated that it was understood, John was home primarily to study, to continue his classes and lessons. No one was to interfere a second time. He would take it upon himself to find a proper school for John.

Mamma Margherita was beside herself with gratitude. Early next morning uncle Michael was off, school hunting. He spent several days taking in the situation. The parish priest at Castelnuovo said it was impossible, the term was much too far advanced, the class too full, he had no one to even coach the boy. Don Sismondo, who had once before refused to aid the Bosco widow, found no room for John in his grammar grades.

The Buttigliera priest excused himself for lack of time. In fact, both of the clergy let it be understood, that they felt it much out of place for one of such modest circumstances to study for the priesthood.

Michael Occhiena told Don Calosso at Murialdo the bad news. For two days he had been running around hoping to find someone who would accept John. Don Calosso was much upset that such lame excuses were used. He was determined to do all he could. He would indeed help John to make up for lost time. He would from then on, devote every free moment in teaching John.

John started his classes. Until then he had been rather shy and reticent about the real situation at home. He finally opened his heart to the old man of seventy. Things went smoothly for a while, the old teacher and young student worked hard never losing a moment. Don Calosso did more than just interest John in learning, he managed to pry the lad's agile mind, he taught him to grasp, to perceive, to hold. No one had ever done more for John in the intellectual field, no one was more devoted.

Mamma Margherita's suspicions that Anthony's tolerance would be short-lived was correct. It was merely temporary. A leopard does not change its spots, so too Anthony had given in at first because his uncle had forced his hand. No sooner had John been home a few weeks, when the same troubles began all over again. The same tirades, the same mean chicanery, the same abuse the moment John studied at the kitchen table. Life under these circumstances became unbearable.

One Sunday after Mass, Mamma Margherita surprised even herself, by going for an interview to the sacristy at Murialdo. She had something she wished to talk about with Don Calosso. He listened to her, told her that if she valued the gifts that God had given her son, it would be up to her to take very drastic steps. This interference was very definitely the work of the devil. Good would triumph, but it would be her duty to see that John was left in peace. The boy's entire future was at stake, as well as his health.

From Murialdo, Margherita went to see her family. On marrying, her father had given her a piece of land. For the first time she confided how impossible the situation at Becchi had grown. She wept as she spoke to her single sister Marianne. Her brother Michael was also present, both decided it was high time that she do something. Once they knew that Don Calosso was backing her, they promised to do their share.

The procedure would be a long and tedious one. Since two of her children were minors, the local court would divide the patrimony. Fortunately she had nothing to say, just pay the bills, so Anthony could not blame her for being partial. The land her father had given her as a dowery was used to placate Anthony. Due to the fact that the boys were minors, she had wished to keep intact the house they had been born in. The lands were subdivided, and at a great personal loss to Mamma Margherita, who in future if she wished to support herself and her sons, would have to look elsewhere to gain a livelihood.

Once the court order came for Anthony to vacate the premises, he very cold-bloodedly helped himself to all he could lay his hands on. He forgot that had it not been for his step-mother, he would never have survived the period of famine, nor surmount the thousand obstacles that would have hindered him at every turn. It was she who had cooked, cleaned, struggled from early morning till late at night, without ever a word of thanks from him. She had worked like a servant, and he had treated her more like a slave than an equal.

While the preparatory work dragged on in court, Don Calosso not wishing to ha ve John lose more time, sent for Mamma Margherita. He told the widow that if she had no objections, he would like to have John come and live with him. Not only would he thus be able to work undisturbed, but his mind would be at peace. This constant turmoil was bad for John. It made him nervous and he suffered from frightful headaches.

Mamma Margherita was speechless with joy. Naturally she approved of the arrangement. John soon moved into the rectory of Don Calosso, where pupil and student became inseparable.

At long, long last, after years of discord the two boys dared sit side by side with their mother, and relax. They were no longer afraid to speak out their minds, the tongue lashing they had received so often in the past no longer existed. John wasn't afraid to leave his books out in the open, nor did he have to hesitate to study openly before the fire. Things had changed at Becchi, the joy that once permeated its walls was back again, and this time peace had come to stay.

Even Don Calosso dropped in to pay a visit to Mamma Margherita. He talked to her about the plans for the future. Of how he wanted to coach her son till her youngest was ready for the seminary. They would finish grammar grade, since he was older than the rest, this would save him unnecessary embarrassment. Then too, she must begin to think of sparing her strength, her money for herself. She must no longer worry about John. He had plans, plans for his future. There would be no need of worrying, he had money which he would set aside for a burse. John was all set for his seminary days, she now had to learn to take it easy.

Daily John poured over books, his master at his side. Time flew. Don Calosso was just as happy as was his student. Progress was what he most wanted, and John was making great advances. On the nineteenth of November John had been sent by Don Calosso to Becchi. He had an errand to deliver to widow Bosco. John was to spend the morning with his mother, when a messenger came quite out of breath. Don Calosso was very ill, he wished to see John

urgently.

By the time John reached his tutor and benefactor, he was lying paralyzed and helpless. John never left his bedside for the next two days. Poor Don Calosso seemed worried and restless. He tried to speak but a stroke had made it impossible for him to utter a word. Taking from his pillow a key, he pointed to the safe. John did as indicated, opened it and brought to the priest six thousand lire. There were uttered sounds, but not a word. John tried to hide his tears, and

smiled, then put the money back where it had come from.

On the 21st Don Calosso was dead. A heartbroken lad was sobbing at his feet. His master had died in his 76th year. No sooner had word been sent that Don Calosso died than his relatives came from Chieri. They were all well off. John gave them the key to the safe. They removed the contents, and though they had known that Don Calosso planned to befriend the would-be

seminarian, nothing more was said or done. The aged priest had merely made a verbal statement to Mamma Margherita and her John. Unfortunately he had not left a written will or testament. John left empty handed. With the death of Don Calosso went all hopes of ever entering the seminary.

Chapter 9.

Grammar School

The sudden death of Don Calosso had been a most frightful blow. John, who had endured much persecution in the past, had finally relaxed, and believed and even knew that all would be well. His heart had been filled to overflowing with gratitude at God's goodness. Then without warning, like a thief in the night - all he had counted on - had gone. Gone was the light, the hope, the teacher who had brought all this into his sorrowful life. Now the priesthood would be inaccessible!

John's grief was so poignant that Mamma Margherita feared for his health. The same lad who as a little child had burst into tears over the loss of his pet blackbird was inconsolable. Other boys his age had already entered high school. He had not yet gone to grammar school!

John's mother sent him off to Capriglio to visit his grandfather. There were plenty of distractions among the Occhienas, for the uncles and aunts came and went. Everyone was fond of John, everyone wished to help, yet there was little anyone could do. All the while John was haunted by the memory of his lost friend. By day he thought and prayed for him; by night he dreamed of his former counsellor. He was seen very red-eyed, nor was he ashamed to weep.

Finally the little holiday came to an end. John complained about the desperateness of his situation. They knew no other priest, nor could they turn to another. Deep in his heart, he still hoped for a miracle, perhaps someone would take pity on him. With this in mind, he planned to waylay the aged parish priest of Castelnuovo who with his curate took a daily walk. John made an effort to approach them. He greeted them politely, even cordially. They returned his salutation, but since it was not customary to stop or talk to a peasant, they continued on their walk.

John came home bitter, fuming, and discouraged. The spirit of Jansenism had even permeated the ranks of the clergy. They remained cold, distant, and aloof. They felt superior and did not condescend to lower their standards by talking to total strangers. John grumbled to his mother that the priests had ignored him.

Mamma Margherita tried to explain, that after all he was far too unimportant. Why should a priest with the great amount of learning at his command pay any attention to a child?

John said that was no reason at all. He insisted that if a priest were really a man of God who knew so much, then he had a duty to help poor little boys.

Again Mamma Margherita intervened. She tried taking the side of the pastor and curate.

John acquiesced. It was true a priest did a lot of good. He could hear confessions, preach from the pulpit, visit the sick and poor, but how was it, that with boys who formed part of his flock, there was no contact whatever? Were not little boys part of the flock of Christ? How was it that Jesus never thought He was wasting His time? Did He not speak a lot to little children?

Mamma Margherita was obliged to capitulate. She agreed that there was some truth in what he said. Then in order to soothe his ruffled feelings, she asked: "What would you do?"

John looked very sad. "If I ever become a priest, I will give my whole life just to children, but to very poor ones. I shall always stop and speak to them, no matter how dirty they are, or how poor. I shall love them, and make them feel my love. I will spend my life giving them good advice and helping them."

There was indeed little, Mamma Margherita could say to such sincere expressions. Her heart ached because she really suffered with and for her little John. She prayed to her Madonna that she be given the grace and strength to guide him.

Then came a day, a time when she fully realized that it was up to her to take a final step. There was no use expecting someone to turn up, no use counting on someone else to intercede for her. She took matters into her own hands. On one of her weekly expeditions to Castelnuovo, she herself paid a visit to the same parish priest who once had had no time for John. Grave decisions were made then and there. She had to think quickly, act even faster, use all her determination. Then satisfied with the results, she came back with a basket of produce under an arm.

John had gone with Joseph into the fields to do his share of work. Somehow John had grown listless. The sparkle of his eyes had vanished, he was no longer the same jolly child. He noticed though that his mother, upon her return from town, had a smile of real happiness on her lips that had become so drawn and tired. The very fact of seeing his mother really happy made him go up to her and kiss her. She kept her secret to herself till that evening. Only after night prayers had been said did Margherita break the good news. John had been enrolled that very day in grammar school. Classes had started three months ago, so he would have to wait till after Christmas. He would also attend the supplementary Latin class.

When the end of December came, a very jubilant John trudged twelve miles to school daily. The distance mattered not at all, just as long as he could study and find a willing teacher. John was already fifteen, older, maturer, and larger than the other pupils. For none of the Boscos were big men. Yet his classmates jeered and ridiculed him. What was he, big boy, doing in school? Poor, sensitive, kind hearted John suffered again. All his life he had been pushed aside, jeered at. Even with Anthony gone, it seemed as if his very lot in life was suffering humiliation!

After a while, quite a while, the same classmates who had been so quick at ridicule gradually admired, then loved John. He had won them over, his frankness, his quick sense of humor, his love of laughter. Unfortunately the long walk to Castelnuovo and back to Becchi began to tell on him. Later he stayed at school during the long lunch hour, and saved one eight-mile walk. Even that became too much. John, in order to save on shoe leather had tied his boots together. then slung them across his back. He only stopped to put them on once he had reached the outskirts of Castelnuovo. During the inclement February weather, with ice and often snow on the road, he suffered much. Mamma Margherita, who overcame each new difficulty as it arose, now found a suitable lodging for her son.

John Roberto, a tailor, was looking for an apprentice. He needed one to live in. John was accepted on condition that weekly he would be provided with eggs, bread and vegetables. A happy mother left her son at his new abode. On bidding him farewell, her words of admonition were: "Always have an ardent, tender devotion to your Madonna, keep very close to Our Lady of Grace. Choose from among your companions only those who love the Mother of God. If you do this, if you persevere in your great love of Mary nothing can ever happen to you. She will care for you, will see you through your studies, even take my place, the place of a mother."

ohn was fortunate that the headmaster was a most understanding priest. Don Emanuel Viano did all he could to assist John, so he would adjust himself to studies. He had surprised all his masters by quickly catching on to his lessons, by his quickness of mind, by his determined aptitude. John appreciated Don Viano's help. He turned to him not only for lessons but for spiritual advice. Even though at the time he was having very serious trouble with his Latin professor, anything was bearable, just as long as he could go to class and learn!

The Latin teacher, a priest named Don Moglia was the seat of all the trouble. He had violent dislikes. His pet peeve was the peasant. John became the butt of his sarcasm. Here was a good target, the poorly dressed country lad from Becchi. Even his manners were different from polished city folk. Professor Moglia let John know so all could hear him, that nothing good could come out of Becchi. He sneered at peasants who thought they could mix Latin with ploughing! He advised John to pack his books so he could stay on the soil. He should remain a farmer, these high-brow, silly notions of study were a waste of his good time!

Don Moglia snubbed his pupil mercilessly. He acted as if John had not attended class. He disregarded his work. When everyone else presented their exercises, John did the same. Invariably among those returned, corrected and marked in red ink, John's came back to him untouched. Day after day, John walked up the aisle to his master's desk. The teacher merely tossed back his work with a sneer. He wondered why he was such an ass? Why such a dunce? Did he not know that asses should stay on farms, there was no place for them in such localities as Castelnuovo.

Naturally John did not have an elephant's hide. He was extremely sensitive, yet he was just as determined to stay as his teacher was to get him out. The more he suffered, the more he gave the impression that he was stupid. Never forward, he kept his sufferings to himself. He redoubled his efforts at politeness, at trying to win over Don Moglia.

One day his classmates pleaded for John. They asked Don Moglia openly why he had not corrected John's work? They took his notes to the teacher's desk. With great reluctance Don Moglia' looked over them, then indignantly threw them on the floor, shouting: "Cheat! Cheat! You horrible cheat!"

John's class mates jumped to their feet. Who could he cheat from? They were his companions, Professor Moglia had better see their notes and judge for himself, whether or not John had copied or gotten any help. They insisted: "We cheat, not he, yet he gets all the blame."

John would be lastingly grateful to his younger friends for coming to his defense. The whole class cheered because it was self evident that John's work was as near perfect as could be. Everyone admired his great endurance. Though through this method the teacher had been obliged to acknowledge that John's paper was good, that did not lessen his attacks.

When April came around poor John was to have another rude blow. His counselor and friend was moved to a better position in a town far away. To make matters even worse, the new headmaster was none other than the unfair Don Moglia. With this dreaded man at the helm, things went from bad to worse for John who from then on was unable to make any further progress. There was a constant mix-up in examinations. The result was that John flunked. According to his professor's standard a peasant did not belong to an elite that was entitled to study.

There were fortunately a few compensations for living in Castelnuovo. The school system might be faulty, but tailor Roberto proved a wonderful master. His apprentice soon learned how to fabricate the finest shirts, pants, and waistcoats, to sew hems and button-holes. John became a proficient tailor.

Besides making clothes tailor Roberto was an excellent singer. With his fine voice he took part in the church choir. Hearing John hum about the house, he left him no peace till he joined the church singing. There it was that the apprentice learned plain-chant, hymns, and canticles. At home, the musical tailor taught him to fiddle. He gave him his first violin. There was even an antiquated harpsichord, which John quickly learned to play as accompaniment. No. activity was too humble. John tried everything. He was versatile.

The long holidays meant John collected his books and sadly returned to Becchi. His heart heavy, things in Castelnuovo had hardly worked out as planned. There had been much confusion. His work had never been corrected. He began to wonder if he was meant for study?

John found his mother had rented a farm at Sussambrino. She had realized that in the partitioning of land, there remained insufficient to farm. She had bravely decided to rent a house and land to work her own and this land at Sussambrino which was situated on the outskirts of Becchi close to where they had lived all their lives.

There was none of that dolce far niente in the make-up of this little woman. With a hustle and enthusiasm that had characterized her since the beginning of her married life, she now saw to it that activity on the farm hummed. She could ill afford to waste a moment. Their future and John's was at stake. As a student, no matter where he finally studied he would require money or grain to pay for his needs. They would be many, yet she was not going to stop at the very outset of his education. Nothing would be permitted to interfere with his plans.

Now that Mamma Margherita ran things her own way, life for John on the farm was most congenial, even pleasant. He was no longer ashamed nor afraid to be seen with his books. He was given the type of farm employment that permitted him to study. On one occasion he was holding the halter of two cows while they grazed, at the same time he memorized his Latin. He heard the clatter of hoofs, and looked up to see the new pastor of Castelnuovo riding past him.

"Good morning young man! You amaze me, reading under the blue skies? What are you really doing?"

"Good morning to you Don Dessano, I am catching up with my Latin, I am far behind in class and have much to make up."

Don Dessano or, coming over to question John was astonished at the boy's knowledge. He asked to meet his mother. As the trio sat around the kitchen table the priest offered to give him Latin lessons that summer, if he in turn would ride his horse and curry down his mare. The animal needed exercise.

The vacation passed quickly. Not only did John learn Latin but became an expert horseman. Merely riding the horse did not satisfy him, he learned to ride bareback thus rousing the envy of the village children who like himself had been too poor to afford a horse.

When John discussed the future with his mother, he pleaded not to be sent back to Castelnuovo. With Don Moglia there, he would make no progress. It was a waste of time and money. John's mother realized he was right. There was no need of further humiliation.

Since the inhabitants of Becchi came from that Montferrat region, which meant people of the Fierce Mountain, Margherita had inherited some of the granite qualities of a mountain folk. Besides her tenacity, she was not going to admit defeat. Margherita told her two sons she was going to Chieri. What she would do, who she would see, all depended on what happened once she reached the town noted for its many schools and colleges. Chieri being a good twelve miles distant, she used the stagecoach that carried mail twice daily.

Chieri, nestling close to the Apennines, was a medieval town with twelve thousand inhabitants. Its gothic cathedral and baptistry stood out, the narrow streets, the high walls, the low shops with sloping roofs, the many piazzas gave Chieri a distinct atmosphere. Though an industrial town, it was preeminently known as a student center, where Jesuits, Dominicans, Franciscans and half a dozen other religious had their schools or seminaries.

A cousin of Mamma Margherita had just bought a new business on the main square. Joseph Pianta was the proud owner of a sort of albergo, cafe and restaurant all combined in one. Margherita was invited to stay with these relatives till she had settled her affairs, as she * would need several days to make the. arrangements necessary for John's studies. Her cousin, Joseph told her about a widow who needed a tutor for her nine-year-old son and a houseboy as well.

In Chieri it was customary with boys attending the local gram- mar or high schools to room out. All the boarding-houses were occupied. The poorer students became apprentices and worked for room and board which was very expensive. The widow, Signora Lucia Matta, was no exception, though she would use the services of John as a domestic and tutor, Margherita would have to pay monthly twenty-one lire. But the widow seemed very kind, and was willing in exchange for room and board to accept corn and wheat. But Margherita would have to provide her son with the necessary bread, wine, and fruit from home.

Other mothers would have found a distance of twenty-five miles too great a distance to cover once a week. Especially in those days when travel was complicated, slow and expensive. Margherita said she would use the stagecoach, any sacrifice would be accomplished, just as long as her youngest could fulfill the mission in life which God had destined for him.

Next she visited the Dominicans. Her parish priest, Don Dessano had already spoken a word in favor of John. She found the necessary enrollment had been performed. The headmaster agreed readily that John, being much older than his classmates, might skip classes just as long as he passed his examinations leading to the secondary schools. According to the educational system freedom of choice was not allowed. The educational fate of a youngster was usually decided at the age of eleven. The child had to participate in nation-wide examinations. The boys who passed might continue their studies by going to the secondary schools, and then on towards college. Those who failed were shunted on to another track. This at the age of 14 led to a dead end, scholastically their training in school was over. John seemed an exception, but they would do all they could to help this somewhat retarded education. Thus reassured, the happy little widow returned home.

Once the preliminary arrangements had been made, there remained nothing else but to take the final step. Though there had been a plentiful harvest and Mamma Margherita could provide for the room and board from her wheat and corn, John required money for books. These were frightfully expensive. Poorer students, who had no stipends and needed funds went begging from door to door asking for alms.

John took a sack and for the next two weeks knocked from door to door. He used the age old saying of: "Pauper studiosus sum, oro te viaticum." (I, a poor student, depend on your alms.) Everyone in Becchi, Murialdo, and Capriglio gave generously, though all these peasants were still suffering the after effects of the brutal invasion of Napoleon.

When John left home for Chieri that November, he was to bid farewell for all times to his past, his peasant life. The parish priest loaned him his horse. Another friend harnessed a cart which Joseph loaded with fifty pounds of corn and twelve bushel baskets of millet. They arranged to meet Joseph at the Castelnuovo market-place. John, the strong athlete, tossed on his shoulders two sacks of wheat and corn. These he would sell to the highest bidder, and use the money for his books. Then John and his mother joined Joseph who took the family on to Chieri.

Widow Matta received them with open arms. She promised Margherita she would care for John as if he were her son. As in the past, this holy mother had but one thought. She confided her youngest to the maternal care of the Mother of God: She bade him be very careful of his companions, of their language, to choose only those who kept close to the Mother of God, who had devotion to Our Lady. Then giving her boy her blessing, making a little sign of the cross on his forehead with her thumb, she embraced him and left once again for Becchi.

Servants were servants. Anyone who did menial labor was looked down upon in any household. John after all, in the eyes of the widow Matta, came to take the post of domestic, he was wretchedly lodged, very wretchedly fed, usually wretchedly clothed but blissfully happy. Though sixteen he still was in the grammar grades with nine-year-olds. He studied like a slave, passed each examination successfully, skipped first one, then two, then three classes all in that first year. The exams were tough, but he was never again to flunk:

John had proved that the system in use at Castelnuovo was faulty and quite unfair. John was tremendously popular with all his classmates. During his free time many came to visit him. Sundays he formed a little boy's club called the Society of Joy. The group would hike to wayside shrines, pick berries or mushrooms, even go as far as Turin on tours of exploration. When asked why the name of Joyous Society, John explained that his mother had always wished her son to be gay and happy. She claimed that the devil liked mournful people. They wished to do good in life. Then their spirit of fun and laughter had to be contagious.

John was careful of his companions. The objectionable ones soon fell away. In school there were all types of boys, the good, the indifferent, and the evil. A group of the evil lads tried to win this athlete for their own purposes. He would become a good pawn. Knowing where he lived they suggested that he steal things belonging to Widow Matta. Once this initiation was passed, he would become one of them. Besides she was so rich that she would miss nothing. John was furious. Indignantly he retorted that his mother, had confided him to the widow. Though he worked there, and worked hard, he esteemed her. In fact, he thought so much of her advice that he never associated with any of the boys without first consulting her.

During two years John was not only house-boy but tutor. Soon he became more, for they loved him as if he belonged to their family. When the widow was obliged to leave town, John had to look for a new dwelling.

Joseph Pianta, the innkeeper, needed a waiter, a servant who could be jack of all trades. John accepted. In this manner he would have room and board. Though his room was merely a cubby-hole under the stairs; close to the bakery, he had a place to leave his precious books, and a bed on which to sleep, though the bed was so short, that his feet stuck out in the corridor! Yet his mother had once said, it was better to learn how to sleep on a hard bed, so he had no difficulty when it came to bed time. He was prepared for every emergency.

John soon learned from his cousin how to become an excellent waiter. He rushed about with a napkin over his arm caring for hungry clients. In between he was dish-washer. When business was slack he saw to the baking and cooking. He learned to make all sorts of pastries, concocted ices, and cooling drinks and even made candies. His hours of work were arduous and long. There was little time for sleep, since it had to be used to catch up with lessons, and a baker worked most of the night, then up at dawn sweeping the dining rooms and street.

Cousin Joseph was a poor bargain keeper. He was also very stingy. The huge portions of minestrone meant to sustain a student's strength ended up a failure. The water concoction that replaced the so-called vegetable soup could not satiate the hunger of a growing lad. It was fortunate that Mamma Margherita feeling uneasy about her son still came weekly with his favorite loaf of whole-wheat bread and all the cornmeal and vegetables and chestnuts that she could spare. Poor John was often desperately hungry, so hungry that at cousin Pianta's hotel he was to ruin his stomach.

Chapter 10.

Studies in Chieri

John returned home for the holidays of 1833. Mamma Margherita was no longer alone with her two sons. Joseph had married and had brought into the family circle his sweet bride. The young girl was all that they could have wished for. Everyone rejoiced. There was no grumbling, though they were just as poor as before, and with an extra mouth to feed, there were added expenses. Each was determined to see what could be done to help Joseph who planned the following year to build a home of his own and set up housekeeping. He would stay very close to Mamma Margherita, giving her the chance to lead her own life, and just across the right of way, that split their property in two, he would build himself a sizeable two-storey house.

John planned that his wedding gift would be a complete surprise. During that winter he had learned how to handle a plane, saw, and hammer. Before the vacation had ended, it was John who had contributed the most towards the future happiness of the young married couple. They had a dining-room set, their bedroom had been provided for, and many useful closets, drawers; chairs, and tables. Joseph was to be lastingly grateful to his younger brother for this foresight, which enabled him to have all the comforts of home so inexpensively.

When John returned to Chieri he went back to the inn. Cousin Joseph was so delighted with his waiter and baker and cook that he now offered John a chance to go into partnership. How any sensible man could turn down such an offer and prefer studies was more than Joseph Pianta could understand. John had become a culinary expert. His accomplishments in the kitchen were many. He could bake, made bon-bons, and even distilled liquor to be served with after-dinner coffee. There was really nothing he could not do when once shown. John informed cousin Joseph that he had higher aspirations. Besides, though he was a relative, he really was hardly treating the student fairly. Not only was John not given enough to eat. but he was overworked. His friends began to worry. They used to bring him extra bread, or hot chestnuts from the street corner vendor. Yet, John was the last one to complain. Only after the last guest had been served could he sweep out the establishment. Then he was free to crawl into the tiny cubicle to study by flickering candle, for the hole in the wall was the only available place left for him to use. Mornings he would be up by dawn baking bread, then he would slip out to the Jesuit church of St. Anthony to serve one of two Masses. Back again at work till classes started. There was the old grandmother, an invalid, who had to have her breakfast. No one could have been more considerate or kinder to her than was John.

It was Don Cafasso, by now John's most staunch friend, who decided it was time for him to change his abode. He let it be known, that the conditions under which John lived were most unfair and unsanitary. He knew a reputable tailor who took in roomers. Though his quarters might be small, yet they were palatial in contrast to what he had just vacated. On the groundfloor, next to the stable he had his quarters. The only work required of him for room and board was to care for a mare, and a few hours in the vineyard weekly to prune grapevines or spray or weed. The food there was excellent, so was the congenial group of students.

The classes were so arduous that those who knew him feared for his health. He worked by day and studied far into the night. Every free moment away from his Dominican masters he spent in the neighboring book-shop. Elias had a lending library, a penny a day was the price charged. John usually managed to read one book in twenty-four hours. He drove himself to such an extent during these years that he was to suffer the penalty for the rest of his life. He was to ruin his eyesight with poor candle-light, yet it was no fault of his that the patrons who hired him gave him the worst there was. Servants in those days were treated worse than slaves, to do menial labor meant to declassify oneself so that one was treated on an entirely different level.

Fortunately for John, Mamma Margherita could now be invited whenever she came to Chieri with her basket of food to stay over and have a meal. Tailor Thomas was a most generous man. He liked company, he also liked festivities. There was one famous anniversary. John had been to the kitchen helping to prepare the main course; he was busy with last minute preparations. Tailor Thomas was so very naive, so unsuspecting that John could not resist playing tricks on his kind and jovial host.

On this special occasion the host in person carried a huge platter of chicken to the table. When he removed the lid, instead of the cooked hen a live rooster flew across the room crowing as it perched on his master's chair.

Another time as the tailor was about to dish out macaroni to his boarders there was sawdust. When he lifted a glass of wine to his lips it became crystal clear water. In biting into a delicious jam sandwich, he was chewing a crust of dried bread. When he went to pay a bill, he found nothing but rusty coins in place of his sliver ones. Things grew from bad to worse. Everyone knew that John Bosco was a renowned magician; he could play all sorts of tricks. But this was going too far. The fearful tailor went to see the parish priest confessing his fear that his roomer was an agent of the devil. Too many things had happened that were unaccountable for. He did not wish to put out his boarder since he had been recommended by Don Cafasso, yet he felt it was high time that ecclesiastical authority knew what was happening.

Canon Bertinetti did not wait long. On matters of such urgent importance, he wanted to get over the unpleasant matter at once. John's studies were interrupted, he got a call to kindly report at the parish priest's rectory at once! The Canon being a holy and prudent man was fearful that John was practicing not black magic, but white magic, he was surely dabbling with the devil in person! John entered the rectory. The Canon was reading his breviary. On looking up and greeting John, he explained how pleased his professors were at the great progress he had made. His conduct was exemplary at school, yet he learned that he was causing people to say he dabbled with the devil. He wished to know who had taught him his bizarre tricks. He hoped he would open his heart and in great confidence explain about these fantastic stories that were circulating.

Without seeming in the least bit perturbed, John asked if the Canon would tell him the time. The priest reached for his watch. It was gone!

John then requested the Padre to cross the palm of his hand with a piece of silver. The Canon reached into his pocket for his wallet! It was gone!

Trembling with fury, he turned on John and accused him of being a partner of the devil. He demanded to know how.

With greatest respect John said: "I can easily tell you my secret. Slight of hand, concentration, keeping my eyes open - all this and a few tricks learned as a child help me. On coming into this room, you had just finished giving alms to a beggar, then you placed your wallet on your prie-dieu. You looked at the time when I came into the room, absent-mindedly placing your watch on your desk. I took the one and the other; I hid both of them under the lampshade. You will find them there."

After a heart-to-heart talk midst much laughter, John demonstrated many of his tricks. When it came time to leave the Canon remarked: "If there are any further complaints tell them in my name, ignorantia est mater admirationis, ignorance is the mother of admiration."

John was finally ready to enter the Major Seminary. His years of preliminary studies were about to terminate. Many things would have to change. He had reached his goal in less than three years. Students who aspired to the priesthood were obliged to live within the enclosure of the seminary, discipline did not permit them to do outside work. Thus all means of his earning a livelihood on the side would come to a stop. It meant that he would have to depend entirely for support on his mother, this he knew to be impossible, since she had sacrificed all she had to give him what he had already received.

John often dropped in to pray at the Franciscan church. He liked the spirit of the priests wearing the brown habit of St. Francis. He liked their great piety, they really lived a frugal, holy life. In March of 1834, he paid the superior of the Convent of Peace a visit. He went to talk things over, to ask advice. The superior suggested that he go at once to Turin, there talk things over with the master of novices, and take an aptitude test. Once this was done, his name was entered. The register of postulants was to bear for all times, John Bosco. He returned to Turin on April 18th, where he took the examinations required by Canon Law. On the 28th of that, same month he was admitted and listed as a future postulant.

John had managed to arrange all of this by himself. He had no desire for fanfare. As soon as the summer holidays began, he would run up to Becchi, bid his mother goodbye, and enter the Franciscan novitiate. The very thought of becoming a parish priest filled him with terror. He was even afraid of pride within himself, of having too much power and authority. Now within a monastery, he would place himself under obedience, he would live a life of solitude, of prayer, with great peace and time for much study.

One night John had a perfectly horrible dream. It was so weird that it frightened him. He saw a group of Franciscans with habits in rags, each fleeing in different directions. Some of the monks ran to him, whispered words of advice. They told him to seek peace elsewhere. "You look for peace in the Convent of Peace, but you will not find it there. Go elsewhere. Look at the attitude of those who will become your brothers in religion. Go, go quick, for God has prepared for you another field of action. Your harvest is not the one you plan or expect, it will be another one."

John was upset by this dream. He could not shake it. He went to see his friend, Don Cafasso. He advised the student to make a nine day novena, then return.

John had visited his father confessor in Chieri. He told John that in matters pertaining to a vocation it was up to each individual to follow his own light. He could neither help him, nor give advice.

John was torn as to what to do. He still felt that for him it would be far safer and quieter in a religious Order. A secular priest had too many temptations. Still upset because he had received no direct answer, John now went all the way to Castelnuovo to his friend Don Dessano. He had to make up his mind. He had been accepted in Turin. Yet Don Dessano who listened carefully was not at all convinced that John was meant to live within a cloister and cut himself off from the world. He told him that he felt he should live in the world but not be part of it. He promised to pray for John to see the light, to know the Will of God. John, still uncertain, returned to Chieri troubled in mind, sad at heart.

Don Dessano did not wait long once John left. He jumped on his horse and rode to Becchi. He waited at the Bosco house to speak to Mamma Margherita. He told her that her son had come to talk things over with him. That he was undecided. That he would in all probability enter the Franciscan Order. He personally disapproved of the plan. First of all she herself was not getting younger, in her old age she was fully entitled to have help from her son, John. Once a member of a religious Community, that aid would not be possible. He was convinced that John had decided on entering the Franciscans because he was concerned over who would pay for his studies at the Major Seminary. If he joined the Franciscans he would be no expense to any one. Once John made the vow of poverty, he would no longer be able to provide for her. It was now her duty to advise her son, just as she had so often in the past. John had reached the cross-roads. It was up to Mamma Margherita to steer him right. Her son had a very brilliant future ahead. His religious career was bound to be most successful. But he could not, he should not go to Turin.

Don Dessano was in a great hurry to return to Castelnuovo. He did not wait to hear what Mamma Margherita had to say. She bade him a pleasant good evening, and he was off tearing across the hills into the valley below.

At the crack of dawn next morning Margherita was away. She hurried to catch the stage coach to Chieri. John was very much surprised to see his mother.

Mamma Margherita told John how Don Dessano had been to see her, how confidentially he had told her of John's intention of entering the Franciscans. Mamma Margherita first wanted to know from John if this was true?

John seemed surprised: "Mamma mia, it is my intention, but I never dreamed that you might object or be opposed. I have been accepted and plan to enter as soon as the holidays begin."

"My son, I have not the slightest objection. I have but one request to make of you. You must pray much. You must not take so great a step without serious deliberation. Then once you have fully decided, follow your vocation without the slightest hesitancy. One thing, one thing alone is paramount, the salvation of your own immortal soul. Don Dessano wishes me to dissuade you from entering with the Franciscans. He feels I may need your help later on in life, when I am aged and can work no more. I personally feel that God must come first in this choice. I neither count, nor do I wish you to worry about my future. I want absolutely nothing from you dear John, I also expect nothing from you. Mark my words, I was born poor, I have lived as a poor woman all my life, I wish to die poor.

"John, I wish you to take to heart my admonition! Never forget what I now tell you! If you decide to become a secular priest and ever have the great misfortune of becoming rich I will never cross the threshold of your rectory and I would not come to visit you. Don't forget this warning. I will pray that you do what God wills you to do."

When John's nine day novena to his Guardian Angel was up he went to see Don Cafasso. His friend had a solution. He felt that God had a very specific plan, that he was pre-ordained for something different. What it was, he could not tell. He should continue his studies in Chieri, but this time in the Major Seminary. During the past nine days, he too had prayed for light to guide John along the right path. He had taken the necessary steps to have John enter there. His mother's great poverty which would have hindered him from going there had been removed. He and another Turin priest would share much of the expense of the first year's tuition.

John had implicit faith in the advice of Don Cafasso. Besides everyone knew he was considered a most holy man who had the gift of seeing into souls. John listened carefully, he felt a great weight lifted from his troubled soul.

Then as if inspired, Don Cafasso who was only a few years older than John said: "Go take your entrance examination, continue your preparations. Have faith. God will provide you with whatever you will need to carry you safely through the next six years of study. Don't forget to go to Becchi, tell your wonderful mother not to worry, everything is now arranged. You will be cared for."

Though Don Cafasso was but twenty-three years of age, his advice was decisive. The turning point in John's life had been reached. He was back in Chieri to resume his studies. For another fifteen months he would plod away at college.

The summer vacation of 1835 was spent with his beloved mother. As so often in the past John plunged into every type of work. He was as popular as ever with the young folks. After Sunday Mass he instructed them in their religion, 'taught them how to sing, how to perform acrobatic feats, and he entertained them as he had so often in the past. Just before the new scholastic term started at the Major Seminary it was customary to make a retreat at Chieri. During his absence from home all of John's friends in Becchi and the neighboring villages got together to arrange for him a fitting farewell gift.

They knew how poor the Bosco family was. They realized that on entering the Seminary he would be obliged to have not merely new linen but suitable clothing, they wanted him to have all that was needed.

John came back just in time for his clothing ceremony which was to take place in the parish church. On the feast of St. Raphael, John escorted by his mother and Joseph, walked the five kilometers to Castelnuovo. The whole family went to mass and then to Holy Communion. For John and for his mother it was a very wonderful moment. They were so closely united, one heart, one soul, one purpose. She had dedicated him to God in that church, now on that festive day of October twenty-fourth he was to be set aside for the service of Almighty God!

The basket containing his cassock was brought into the sanctuary. It was to be blessed. The church was packed with people from every walk of life, with relatives and friends, especially with children, the children he had loved, and those who had loved him. Everyone was vitally interested in his vocation and in his welfare.

The cassock was donated by general subscription, all his friends had given their meager pittance. The mayor of Castelnuovo had presented the clerical hat, his parish priest the coat, a wealthy parishioner the shoes. As so often in the past, everyone had contributed something and all rejoiced at the good fortune that had come to this persevering young man.

Back home in his new cassock everyone congratulated John and his mother. There were five days of great rejoicing in the family circle before the final departure for the Seminary. The evening before he left, Mamma Margherita said:

"Dear John at long last you have been clothed with this sacred habit. Nothing could give me greater joy than to see you in your cassock. My happiness is complete, yet I have a little bit of advice to offer. There is very little that I can do for you my John, but I ask of you one sacred thing, never forget what I request of you tonight. It is not the cassock or habit that makes a man a good religious. It is the constant, daily practice of virtue that makes a good priest. If, for a single moment you were to doubt your vocation - then my son - by all that is most sacred I plead with you to remove your habit, take it off, lay it aside. There is no disgrace in having for a son, a poor peasant lad, but I never want for a son, a negligent priest. This is a period of probation. I will pray for you. Above all consecrate yourself anew to Our Lady. Ask her help. When you came into this world, I consecrated you to her. When you began your studies, I bade you honor her. Now I beg of you at the very beginning of your religious life to take her for your Mother and your Queen."

These words spoken by Margherita caused both her and her son to weep. John taking his mother in his arms kissed her: "Mamma mia, I thank you for all you have said to me, for all you have ever done for me. I shall never forget your words. I will treasure them and remember them for the rest of my life. I hope you need never be ashamed of me."

Early next morning John left for Chieri. One phase of his life had ended, things never could nor would they be quite the same. He greeted his new superiors and renewed acquaintances with familiar faces. As he made the rounds of the building and walked through many corridors he saw words painted on the wall: "Afflictis lentae, celeres gaudentibus horae." John laughed as he read the Latin words, and turning to a friend, whom. he had known at school, he said: "Let us use these words as our motto, `let u& always be joyous and time will pass quickly "'

Chapter I1

Seminarian

Once John went to Chieri to enter the Seminary, he remained there for six full years. He was to work very hard at his studies. The possibility of staying there was only enabled because of the combined generosity of friends. This charity on the part of all is what finally permitted him to become a priest. He used to say later, when referring to this period: "I was always at the mercy of everyone."

In order to live it was necessary for him to supplement his scholarship. He strove to acquire the prize for conduct and studies. He won. During his second year of philosophy, half of his tuition was paid for with the prize of exemplary behavior. The third year, he was appointed sacristan. For these services he was reimbursed with a salary. Whatever other fees were lacking, these were made up by Mamma Margherita and Don Cafasso. By the end of his sixth year, his brother Joseph came to his rescue. It was necessary for every priest about to receive the sacrament of Ordination to provide a patrimony. Though Joseph was a married man with a son and daughter, he wished to do his share.

During the summer vacation seminarian John was again free to spend about four months at Becchi. He came anxious to work in the fields. to do anything so as to help his family. The summer of 1836 the cholera had broken out in Turin. In order for their pupils to escape the plague the Jesuits had to close down their town house, they sent their pupils to the mountains. Don Cafasso knowing John was anxious to master more Greek, recommended John as a capable Greek teacher who could tutor the students. The Jesuits accepted him as teacher. He went to Montaldo where for three months he took over several classes and himself acquired invaluable knowledge of that dead language. He could speak it as fluently as he did Latin. Before leaving the seminary he was to master both Hebrew and French, both of which he would need in later life.

This was his first real experience with sons of the rich. Later in discussing this holiday with his mother, he remarked that though his Greek students were all well-mannered, intelligent, and excellent students, he never felt quite at home with these noblemen or aristocrats. Their mode of living never appealed to him. He missed his boisterous, often very dirty little friends of Chieri, Castelnuovo, Becchi, and Murialdo. His little gang of ruffians had always been most faithful. They used to come in small or very large groups, walking often great distances to merely visit him for an hour or two in the seminary parlor. Their chatter, their laughter was contagious. Always so full of fun, yet so pious, always ready to be taken to the chapel for a half hour of prayer. Knots of boys would lie in wait for him at street corners. When on a walk with the seminarians he always met them in the most outlandish, unexpected places. John was always sure of running into one or more of his beloved ragamuffins. After his stay with the sons of the men of wealth, he felt sure that later in life, he would like to dedicate himself to serving these same poor children.

In the seminary one of John's staunchest friends was Luigi Comollo. The boys had been high school chums. The circumstances of that meeting had been peculiar. Both boys were very studious, both very shy. The class at the Dominican High School had a number of ruffians. A certain group of these undesirables decided it was high time to initiate Luigi. They ran things pretty much as they pleased. Being of very delicate health, and preferring to study instead of joining in their rowdy games he had politely refused and continued with his reading. One of the rude boys struck Luigi Comollo in the face as he was reading. Luigi remained seated, merely continued as if nothing had taken place. John Bosco on seeing what had taken place was simply furious. He inquired who is this lad with such edifying conduct? Then and there he went up to Luigi, spoke to him, and became his staunch friend.

Once, only once again did this same thing happen. This time John Bosco went to the rescue of his shy friend. Being as strong as a little ox, he used his square, peasant fists. Before anyone could realize what had taken place, powerful John had knocked unconscious four of his adversaries. The remaining bullies pleaded for mercy having sought refuge behind desks and chairs. At that unfortunate and inopportune moment who should walk in but the professor. The much surprised priest on seeing the -disorder inquired as to what could have happened. John expecting to be roundly reprimanded was silent. His teacher lauded his courage, his strength. Everyone else congratulated him. Everyone but his friend Luigi who later took him aside. "John your appealing strength is phenomenal, it terrifies me, please remember God gave it to you, but not with the intention of knocking others down. He wants you to do good even to those who try to harm us." From then on their friendship was sealed until death parted them. The boys became inseparable. All the greater was their joy, when they were reunited in the seminary. From then on, during holidays, John took Luigi to Becchi. Often he would invite some backward student to aid and coach him. He knew what it meant to be held back. He had not the money but the brains, others had money but no brains. Mamma Margherita's house became a sort of student center, a paradise that none of them was ever to forget. Sometimes there were lads from Murialdo, or Becchi, or even distant Castelnuovo who required a coach. Then John took over, he taught them their Latin or their reading. Once in a while it might be the son of a former friend of Mamma Margherita, as was the case of little Luigi Moglia. The Moglias had been the rich farmers who had taken in John the first time he had been forced to leave home. They were the ones who had insisted he was too poor to ever become a priest, now their son. who as a tot had followed John, wished no one else but the clerical student to tutor him.

Seminary scholars during the last two years of study were required in Piedmont to preach a certain number of sermons. This was practice teaching required during vacation time. The seminarians would volunteer their help to parish priests. Not only did it familiarize them with the technique but gave them ample opportunity to correct their own faults. Luigi and John were helping each other by giving aloud their sermons in Mamma Margherita's kitchen. She had fled to the fields, where work awaited her. It had been best, she had decided for both young men to battle out their own ideas without her presence. On leaving she had asked John to make sure and kill a hen and put it on to stew. They would be hungry when luncheon came.

The morning had gone without their realizing it. They decided it was time to prepare luncheon if they wished to eat. They drew lots. Luigi would start a fire, he would fill the cauldron with water so that it would be boiling by the time John had killed his hen. Then came a rather critical moment. John wearing his cassock had difficulty in climbing a fence and catching the chicken. Killing poultry had always been considered a woman's job. He had seen his mother do it, but chopping off heads was not his specialty. Feeling a bit uncertain and squeamish, Luigi consented to hold the hen, while John got a stump, then with his axe chopped off its head. The noise, the fluttering of wings, the blood filled both with terror - then - amazement. Their headless bird fluttered off around the corner. They were speechless with fright. No matter how often John had watched this same thing happen as a child he now was frightened. Luigi finally pulling himself together began to shout with laughter. Everything had been so funny: "What's the matter John? Why should we run away at the sight of blood? God gave us these creatures to serve and feed us. Come on, what do we do next?"

When they had plucked, cleaned, and prepared their hen the first ordeal was over. John, being an expert cook, knew what to do next. Years later they were to laugh over their first kitchen experiment. They realized they were more proficient in study than in butchering.

For almost a year Luigi, who had a premonition that he would soon die, mentioned this desire of being united to God by death. John had refused to believe that anything would happen to his friend. Luigi was delicate of health, but not ill. Why should he be talking so much about dying? Had not their student life just begun? While discussing this possibility, John, more in jest than in seriousness, had suggested they make a pact. The first one who died would come back from eternity to give a report on his particular fate.

On the feast of the Annunciation in 1839, Luigi, who knelt next to John, complained of not feeling well at Mass. He took him to the infirmary where he was put to bed. Seven days later Luigi was dead. On the 2nd of April the funeral was held midst much weeping and sorrow. The entire seminary mourned the passing of one, who had become a great favorite. Yet none felt the poignant grief more than John. He was inconsolable. He and his twenty-two-year-old friend had made so many plans for the future. They. had looked forward to their years together as priests. Now, like the snuffing out of a candle, there remained but darkness. The light had gone

The night after the funeral John lay in his dormitory bed, his grief was too great for sleep. After the tower clock had struck midnight John and the twenty other occupants of that dormitory were awaked by an appalling noise. The entire building shook. It sounded as if an earthquake had shattered everything. The deafening sound came closer. All twenty students fled from their beds expecting to be crushed. John lay paralyzed with fear. The dormitory was flooded by light. The unearthly sound grew louder, rearer, the dormitory door flew open. Then all heard the same words: "Bosco. . . Bosco. . .Bosco. . . I am saved!"

Something happened on that day, not merely to John but to many of the boys in that dormitory. As long as they lived the frightening experience of that night never left their memory. Some of them who should have lived fervent, religious lives, but did not, reformed. Others left but John, through he mourned, was contented, he knew Luigi was saved. He had though learned a very salutary lesson, from then on he would busy himself with things pertaining to this earth. It was dangerous to contact the hereafter.

John threw himself into the studies more than ever. Being a young man of great action, he was determined never to let grass grow under his feet. He missed his breakfast in order to go to daily Holy Communion at the nearby church of St. Philip Neri. The superiors winked at this breach of the rule. He was a model seminarian. He had accepted without a moment's hesitation the strict rules of the house. His determination to grind away at studies made him renounce all forms of outdoor sports or exercise. He needed every spare moment for his books. As a comrade, he was loved,. always at the service of his companions, whether they required a coach, or a hand at hearing a sermon. His spirituality was neither singular nor outstanding. Among his companions he was by far the most gay, zealous, anxious to attempt any type of menial work from which most students shied away. He sought, he also found opportunities, to assist with sweeping or washing dishes. When he found a poor student with an ill fitting cap, he quickly made him a biretta. He mended shoes of those who needed new soles. He made chairs and desks, he even became barber, cutting the hair of all who were ready to trust themselves to his scissors.

John, who had suffered a great shock in the loss of his friend Luigi Comollo, after years of grinding work became very ill. The sudden sickness caused grave doubts, everyone feared his case would be a repetition of what had happened to Luigi. All the more so, that the same doctors were quite unable to diagnose his ailment. He had already been subject to severe migraine and stomach trouble. These were to be with him for the rest of his life. Now in a semi-coma he neither ate nor drank nor slept. He lay like one dead, with the doctors unable to offer any explanation.

Mamma Margherita, who still continued her weekly expeditions to Chieri, was amazed when told the sad news. It was not customary to take parents to the infirmary, but in this case it was imperative. She might be able to rouse her son. He lay there more like a dead person than one alive.

The solemn faced superiors prepared her for the worst. John could not live. Fighting her emotions, restraining her tears, the brave woman visited John. No sooner had she kissed him, than she realized the seriousness of the moment. She sat at his side as long as the rule would permit. She rose, made her little sign of the cross on his forehead, giving him her motherly blessing. Then quietly she picked up the basket of food which she knew her John would never again need. She had baked him his favorite whole-wheat bread, there was some of her own gooseberry jam and the best wine from her vineyard. Quietly, very quietly Mamma Margherita tip-toed to the door.

John had heard her. Though his eyes had been closed he now opened them. He chided with his usual playfulness for his Mamma to leave the bread and wine. He wanted her to leave everything that she had brought from Becchi. Smiling bravely through her tears, Margherita did as asked, yet she and the infirmarian knew that John was merely asking this so as not to hurt her feelings, to make her think he would get better.

After several hours John felt a longing to see what his mother had brought. He loved his mother passionately. A sudden longing for some of his mother's home-made bread swept over him. Weakly, he reached and took a few bites. Until then he had been unable to retain anything, not even water had touched his parched lips. The bread tasted like more, it was good. He even wet his lips with a few swallows of wine. He was suddenly hungry, very hungry. He bit into the loaf he was eating, the whole-wheat bread, the same bread that Mamma Margherita wanted to take home because she felt it would be far too heavy for his delicate stomach. Then from sheer exhaustion, for the effort had seemed too great, John fell asleep.

That night when the doctors came for a last visit, they felt the end had come. There was no hope. He was given the sacrament of the dying. By morning the physicians were certain the patient would be dead.

Back in Becchi there were tears, there was mourning. People flocked to learn of the tragic news. Mamma Margherita spent the entire evening and night in company with her son Joseph on her knees, she had asked him and his wife and children to pray for John. John had to be saved, John could not die, his life was but beginning! Margherita pleaded with the Madonna, her Madonna, to spare the life of her beloved little John.

Next morning when the doctors came to see if the patient had died, great was their amazement. He awoke. He sat up. He was cured!

Now more than ever John felt he was living on borrowed time. Into it he wished to put as much as was humanly possible. John had already received his tonsure and the four minor Orders. He had met the Archbishop so he went to see him in Turin. On presenting himself to Archbishop. Fransoni, he pleaded to be permitted to study the required treatises of the fourth year during vacation time. He explained that being one of the oldest ones of his class, he wished to make up for lost time. He was already twenty-four. It was high time he completed his studies and was ordained.

The Archbishop was much interested. He promised to look into the matter, study his scholastic records, and let him know if he could make this exception.

After a month of waiting, word reached John that the Archbishop had granted the requested permission. His seminary rector appointed the new parish priest of Castelnuovo, Canon Cinzano, to help him in his difficult treatises.

Great was John's happiness that summer, great was his mother's joy. Now she had him once again and all to herself! Mamma Margherita benefitted by his presence, made the most of the time given her, waited on him, saw that he was left totally undisturbed, so that he could work long hours with the difficult subjects he would have to master in order to skip a class that coming fall.

No joy was greater than the one of hearing her son preach from the pulpit at Murialdo, at Capriglio, even at Castelnuovo. Everyone wanted to hear John, everyone was greatly impressed by his manner, his serious delivery, the depth of what he had to say. Of course all' this did not come at once. Many a time on going home Mamma Margherita would be asked to comment. She brought her John back to earth. He must above all be simple, he should stick to the language of the people. The fewer rhetorical phrases, the less Latin the better she liked it. The simple word of God was what bore weight, that carried the message. He would have to touch hearts, bring about conversions with the means used centuries ago by Christ Himself.

When John went back to Chieri to resume his studies in the year of 1840-1, he not only passed his tests, he skipped a class, and was given the highest honor a student could have. John was appointed in full charge of the clerics.

The last year of studies in the seminary flew by as if on wings. When the Archbishop, who began to take a personal interest in this remarkable student, asked for his report, he received the notes with the following: "Zelante e di buona riuscita." (Zealous and excellent success.)

The final exams were taken on May 15. His rector in presenting him with his diploma had added the rewarding words of "the very best"- "Plus quam optime." This meant it was time to pack his books, his belongings, time was short. John had the joyful anticipation of Holy Orders ahead, yet the sorrowful parting of six years of friendship. The happiest years of his life were spent under that seminary roof, years of peace, of great study, of personal growth spiritually and mentally.

John's few earthly possessions went back to Becchi. Eventually he would rejoin his mother, where after his reception of the sacrament of Holy Orders he would stay over the summer holidays. Then he went to Turin to the convent of the Lazarist Fathers. There he made a ten day retreat in preparation for the greatest moment of his life. Once the retreat was terminated, John presented himself to the Archbishop. In the private chapel of Archbishop Fransoni on Saturday, the 5th of June, John was ordained a priest. Quietly and without any fanfare, with no one present but his dear friend Don Cafasso, John received the sacrament that would make him a priest forever. John who disliked much noise and commotion, could not have been happier. This was the consummation of years of preparation, of years of sacrifice, of years of struggle both on his part and those of his most wonderful mother. Though Mamma Margherita was in his thoughts, in his heart, it had been impossible for her to come to Turin. In the first place she was too poor, secondly some one had to be in Becchi to run things.

John's very first mass was said at the altar of the Guardian Angels in Turin's St. Francis of Assisi church. He was alone again but for his friend Don Cafasso. Then he went to Chieri to say mass amid his Dominican professors, the men who had helped to form and mold him. The people of his home parish could hardly contain their joy. They were anxious to have John say one of the very first masses in their midst. No one was more entitled than they to rejoice. No one was more entitled to his prayers than these his first benefactors.

Canon Cinzano made the necessary preparations for a rousing ovation. The church where John was christened would now receive him as priest. In Castelnuovo he would celebrate the Holy Sacrifice of the mass for their great feast of Corpus Christi. The parish church was packed by relatives and friends, each anxious to receive his personal blessing, to kiss his newly consecrated hands. Nothing could have been more touching as that scene, when Mamma Margherita escorted by Joseph and his wife and children, knelt at the altar rail. Mamma Margherita was unconscious of the fashions of the world, unconscious of the hundreds of eyes fixed on her: lost in prayer, in joy, in spiritual consolation. Her high forehead, with hardly a wrinkle on that joyous face, her white hair, her piercing blue eyes, the long curved nose, the delicate but firm mouth, looking every bit like an aristocrat wearing her only dress, with a linen sun-bonnet tied under her chin. When John turned to bless his mother, every child present craned its neck, sighed in satisfaction, for all loved her, the mother of their John.

Strangely even Anthony, who had moved back to Becchi, deigned to be present. The same Anthony, who once had scoffed, ridiculed, persecuted the boy who had insisted he wanted to study so as to become a priest! But even Anthony had reformed. Mamma Margherita's years of patience had finally left its imprint. Miracles of grace had changed the hard heart, had bowed his head. Time had mellowed his hardness, the grace of God had made him more understanding.

Everyone rejoiced, perhaps no one more than Mamma Margherita. At long last her black sheep had returned home, her three children were reunited at the foot of the altar. Their differences had vanished. Anthony was at least big enough to kiss the hand of his priest-brother, to kneel for his blessing. There was peace, peace at last, in spite of all things. It was Mamma Margherita's greatest triumph. God had heard her prayers. The years of struggle, of sacrifice, of weary effort had brought forth results.

In the presbytery a great festival had been arranged. The clergy and laity from the entire neighboring countryside had been invited. Castelnuovo rarely had seen such festivities or such joy.

With the coming of twilight the celebration came. to an end. Mamma Margherita and her son John walked home alone. The road was so familiar that with closed eyes they could have reached their destination. Their hearts were too full for speech. Now it was John's turn to hold his mother's arm. On reaching the hill-top cottage that was so poor, so simple, so very humble but such a wonderful home, John burst into tears. He could hold back his emotions no longer.

Half aloud, he murmured: "Oh, how wonderful are the ways of Thy Divine Providence! God, you have truly lifted from the very dregs of life, this poor child to place him among the first of his people."

Mamma Margherita gently closed the cottage door. They were alone in the flower-bedecked kitchen, where the familiar table was stacked with gifts of every kind. Outside, the sun had set. Mamma Margherita lit the oil lamp, there was one burning before her favorite shrine of the Madonna. Then as if John had never left her side, she smiled, she asked the same question she had asked a hundred times before: "My boy, have you said your night prayers?"

Though all day long, and on the way home John had prayed, he knew the answer she liked best, he replied, as he always had in the past, "Mamma mia, let us say them together."

Then kneeling as they had in the past, the priest and his wonderful mother prayed before the statue of Our Lady. Once the rosary and accustomed prayers had been completed, they sat outside the kitchen door, looking into the night, peering into the valley below. Mamma Margherita, her eyes filled with tears, said: "Now dear John you are a priest. For me, you will always remain my little John. Daily, from now on you will be saying Mass. One thing you should never forget. When you commence saying the Mass, you really begin to suffer. At first you will hardly be conscious of this fact. In time it will dawn upon you. Then one day you will realize how right your mother was to tell you this. You will pray for me? I am sure you will remember me every morning. More I do not ask of you. You have from now on,, but one concern, that concern is the salvation of souls, you must no longer be preoccupied about me."

John had noticed that Mamma Margherita had a nasty scar on her forehead. Now that they were alone, he asked her how it had happened.

She explained how, on the very day that he was being ordained, June 5th, she needed mulberry leaves for her silkworms. She had climbed the tree, the branch had broken, she had fallen to the ground. To make the matter even worse the branch landed on her head. The scar remained to tell the tale.

Together they reminisced about the former tree-climbing expeditions. Then John in a serious vein remarked: "I am quite certain mother, that it was the devil who wished to take your life. You could so easily have been killed. The accident might have been fatal. Everything was being done on the day of my ordination to prevent you from kissing the hands of your priest-son. See how good our Madonna is. She saved you.- Then leaning down to kiss her tenderly goodnight, he smiled. "Promise me in the future not to climb trees, let someone else pick those mulberry leaves. I may need you at my side in the future. what would I do without you?"

Chapter 12.

Uncertain.

John was asked as soon as he had been ordained to replace the curate at Castelnuovo who was off on a five month’s vacation. Don Cinzano, the parish priest, needed help. John was delighted to be of use so near to home. This very first experience in a parish would prove invaluable. He entered the names of the newly baptised, of the married, and those who died. He visited the sick, he buried the dead, he taught class. Children as usual were drawn to him as a magnet attracts metal. They flocked to his side, they never left him. The moment he stepped outside the rectory, he had his group of hangers-on. The children came from Murialdo, from Capriglio and the Becchi to seek his advice, merely to talk to him, tom get to know him better. The Pied Piper of Hamelin could not have been more successful than was Don Bosco with youth.

When the five months were up, everyone pleaded for him to stay on. Why not apply for the vacancy in Murialdo? He would be very near to his mother, Becchi was around the corner.

In Genoa a tutor was required by one of the nobility. The position including room and board consisted of a thousand lire. Everyone offered Don Bosco good advice. But he seemed quite indifferent to the fact that he was really turning down an exceptional offer. Not every day was such an opportunity to be had. It was a fabulous offer. Genoa was a port town of great wealth. John would rise in fame and fortune. He was extremely lucky to meet at an early age the high and mighty.

Seeing that they had made absolutely no impression on Don Bosco, relatives and friends congregated around Mamma Margherita. She was the one who usually gave advice, now she received it. Listening carefully, for she was an excellent listener, she finally remarked: "I am not in the least impressed by all your suggestions. I feel they are very worldly minded. My John is first and foremost a priest. Why would my John do with a thousand lire? I cannot see my simple John, who is a peasant at heart, living in a palace with rich people, surrounded by silks and satins, and a lot of domestics. Why he would be perfectly miserable."

Others tried to impress her with the idea, that John could thus reimburse her for all the money she had poured out in securing his education. Besides there was her other son, Joseph had a growing family, he could use a little extra cash, as well as she herself! "What would I do with so much money? Of what would that amount of money profit Joseph, if in the end our dear John were to lose his immortal soul?"

John was not in the least concerned about earthly honors, yet he was uncertain about his future. The missions appealed to him. He was drawn by the idea of relieving much suffering, the possibilities of doing much good. The next time he saw Don Cafasso, who had come to Becchi for a few days rest, John in strict confidence told him of his plan of now joining a missionary order and volunteering for pagan lands.

Don Cafasso merely laughed, "You going to the missions? Have you forgotten the great distances to be covered? What will you do when crossing the oceans in sailing vessels? You who cannot sit for an hour in a closed stage-coach without getting desperately ill to your stomach? Forget it dear John, the missions are not for you."

Don Cafasso suggested that he should carry on with his studies, Put an end to all this uncertainty about his future and attend the special courses given at the Institute of St. Francis of Assisi. This Institute had been founded to help young priests continue with their final degrees. Then whatever spare time there remained, he could devote to varied works of piety. It would give him a chance to find his bearings, get used to Turin, and put his mind at ease.

Before John left for the great city, he had accepted one final request to preach a sermon. The village was at quite a distance, so he borrowed a horse to ride there. On this certain day, he and his horse had almost reached the church where a huge congregation was waiting. Suddenly as the horse reached the foot of a steep hill a flock of sparrows startled the old nag. His horse started to run, taking the bit between its teeth. John managed to clutch to his saddle. Together they jumped fences, flew across fields, then finally John slid off his horse's head landing in a pile of rocks. John lay there unconscious, fortunately for him the accident had been seen by a farmer who had witnessed the run away from the top of the hill. He and his servant carried the priest to the farm, put him to bed, sent for a doctor.

When John came to, he was astonished to find himself in bed and in strange surroundings. The peasant introduced himself as John Brina, a farmer. He told John of how he had seen him, how they had rescued him, and though the wait for the doctor would be long, he could be assured of every welcome. He was delighted to have a priest share his roof. Trying to break the monotony, he began to talk so as to take John's mind off himself. He told about his own mishaps, one incident caught the attention of John who could hardly believe his ears.

John Brina several years before had gone one late day in December by the steep hills back of Murialdo, in an attempt to take a short-cut. He had come from Asti where he had replenished his winter provision of food. There had been a blinding rainstorm and his fast trotting ass had stumbled into a nasty rut. In doing so she had fallen into a deep mud hole. Being past midnight and pitch dark he could not see what he was doing so he called in desperation for help. After a very few minutes three men came to his rescue. They carried lanterns. One of them was a young cleric who immediately began to organize the rescue. The accident had taken place outside of the hamlet of Becchi. As the ass was heavily laden, it required much work to unharness and unload the beast of burden.

They pulled the ass from the mire, carried the heavy load into a tiny cottage, led the limping ass into a warm barn, rubbed her down, gave her linament, while he was cared for by the lady of the house. Hot soup was provided, a bed arranged, his wet clothes dried and cleaned of mud. Next morning everything was in readiness for his departure. The peasants had done so much, but would accept nothing. That is what he really called hospitality.

Having told this story he noticed the priest had tears in his eyes. Fearful that he was in pain or feeling worse, he stopped to ask if there was anything he could do.

"No." said John. "You are right, God's ways are really wonderful. Would you by any chance remember the name of these peasants?"

"Oh yes, I could not forget them. The Boscos of Becchi. Would you by any chance know this family? I often wonder what had happened to that young cleric and his kind mother?"

Don Bosco informed him that he was the former cleric, now ordained priest. The host commented on the ways of God. The two became fast friends.

When the doctor arrived, he found no broken bones. He did though insist on a few days of bed-rest. When John finally left, his new friend, John Brina, went back with him to Becchi making sure he reached his destination safely.

John left for Turin. He knew the city, though he had never spent any length of time there. To him it was a cold setting, though Turin was considered an architect's paradise with man made squares, its streets miles and miles of parallel rows all bordering or running to the Po River. The rulers of the House of Savoy wanted it modern in every way, its trimness, its new dwellings, and its tempo were imposing to a country man.

John's first experience with the great city left him most depressed. He had not suspected to find there in its hospitals, the worst diseases. In its prisons youth exposed to crime of every kind. characters of the worst type. Misery, poverty, illness of body and of soul stalked the lovely boulevards. Children abandoned in the streets, young people absorbed by the growing industrial work with all its dangers. Youth, youth everywhere. youth so helpless, a prey to vice, even to despair.

One morning, December 8th, he was about to say the Mass in honour of the Immaculate Conception, but there was no altar boy. He heard in the sacristy a dispute. The angry sexton was beating a ragged urchin. John found out that he had asked the boy to serve Mass but the lad aged fourteen had merely come to pray, not to steal as insisted the sacristan. Don Bosco found that Bartholomew Garelli came from Asti. that he could neither read nor write, that he knew few of his prayers.

Don Bosco and Bartholomew became friends. He gladly came to learn his catechism privately, he had been afraid of the ridicule of other children. Don Bosco asked him to bring his friends. By the next Sunday his first pupil had a group of boys, the numbers increased so rapidly that he did not know where to put his growing flock. Finally Don Borel, who had been keenly interested in Don Bosco, and felt as he did about the problems of youth. found a room.

In the meanwhile Don Cafasso, who had prevented him from joining the missions took him to the jail. He was chaplain and also confessor of those condemned to die. He needed help. Don Bosco went and heard confessions but was never able to be present at an execution. His heart bled for erring humanity. He felt this was not to be his work. He sadly shook his head, that type of work was far too heart-breaking, too depressing. His cheerful smile left his face. He would mutter: "It's too late, too late. Someone should have started earlier. Someone should have done something about it while there was still time."

There was not much Don Bosco did not know about juvenile delinquents. He mocked reformers who started to reform when it was much too late. Why had they tossed youth into the sordid cities? Why had they been left to shift for themselves? He was convinced that there was something very wrong with corrective penal institutions, where youth was put with sordid criminals to disintegrate and degenerate.

About this time throughout all of Turin one man's name was on every tongue. Don Cottolengo was known as the great priest who healed broken minds and bodies. Who cared for derelicts whom no one wanted, who loved the maimed, the deformed, the deaf and the blind and halt. Thousands were cared for by him under his roof. His mercy, his charity were proverbial.

One evening Don Cottolengo having met John invited him to the House of Providence which he had founded. He wondered if the young priest might not care to join him. He needed men like himself, youthful and strong. John, who had not been in Turin too long considered the invitation as if it had been sent by God. He gladly accepted, together they went on a tour of inspection. He saw the building which housed the handicapped, the physical misfits whom no one wanted, the insane, the cripple, the sick. His hostel was a sort of refuge for all types, all kinds of misery. John followed Don Cottolengo. Together they visited one building after another making the rounds thoroughly, talking here, observing there. When it was over John was quite prepared to stay, to take up this type of work, it would give him ample opportunity to save souls. Don Cottolengo merely looked at John, "I would like to have someone like you to be my assistant. I am sorry, this is not your field, you are meant for more active work." Then in a prophetic manner, as he fingered the material of John's new ca ssock he said with a smile: "This material is far too thin. Go get a cassock made of stronger stuff, it will have to withstand the tugging of thousands of children who will cling to you, who will follow you. I am sorry, you are not meant for me and my work, you are cut out to become an apostle of youth."

All this made little sense to John, he continued to visit Don Cottolengo, to teach catechism to his sick. While there, an epidemic of erysipelas had broken out amongst the patients. This did not prevent John from continuing his instruction. It was there that Don Bosco picked up this disease. Though he never spoke of it, nor complained, he was to suffer from a skin infection for the rest of his life. Only when he died was it discovered, only then was it known that he had endured an agony of pain yet never grumbled at the discomfort or suffering.

John continued to be restless. He finally made a retreat at the Oblates of Mary. He had such devotion to the Blessed Virgin and found such consolation there during his days of recollection that he felt he was meant to enter that religious Order. He made the usual arrangements, packed his bag, then went to bid his confessor, Don Cafasso, goodbye.

Don Cafasso was the kind of spiritual director who required no explanations. He could see through souls as if they were of glass. John gave his confessor no explanation nor asked for advice. He had definitely made up his mind. He was going, and no one would prevent him going.

Don Cafasso on seeing John looked at him. "What's your great hurry? I think you are making a grave mistake. Don't be foolish, go now and unpack your bag, because you are not going to the Oblates of Mary."

John was stunned, he thought it was a secret! There were no secrets though with Don Cafasso. He protested: "I feel that God is calling me to the Oblates of Mary."

"You are wrong, just as wrong as you were in your idea that you should volunteer for the missions. Your vocation is cut out for you. Your vocation is to care for poor boys. The work you have started in a small scale is really worth while."

"But I feel God calls me. Since He calls me, He will care for these destitute children. He will find someone else, who will do that work far better than I can."

Don Cafasso grew very angry. "Drop this nonsense. Make up your mind, here and now, that it is your duty, and your's alone to care for the salvation of children. This is the express will of God for you. Come with me. I will get you going. Remember, no more nonsense, no more running away, your apostolate is with boys."

John was taken back. Twice within a very short time the identical words had been spoken by two of the holiest men in Turin, Don Cafasso and Don Cottolengo.

Don Cafasso did more than just talk. He made John bring his packed bag with him. He took him to a mutual friend Don Borel. Don Cafasso explained that he wanted John to board with him until such time that something better could be found. Since Don Borel was also very poor, he would pay for his room and board, later he could find a job as chaplain. For the moment he wanted both men working side by side since both were his penitents.

Don Bosco's modest quarters became the center of his work. In no time, the number of street urchins grew to 300. This meant he had to find a suitable place for them to congregate.

Turin had become a factory city almost over-night. Hundreds of thousands of people flocked there for work. The Marquis de Cavour wanted Turin as a great industrial center, so too did the King of Savoy. The opening of silk mills, the linen mills, brought trade. Rice was planted. Every spring the vast Po River flooded. The inundated plains were useless, by planting rice, they no longer had to import it from China. There was work, more work in Turin than in any other city of Italy. So plenty of people, people of all ages and kinds came to Turin. To it flocked the misfits. To it came boys who were unwanted at home, or orphans who had no parents. Turin was seething with politicians who worked for the unification of Italy, also those who fought the plan. Any type of gathering was frowned upon and looked at by the regime as unfavorable and revolutionary.

This put Don Bosco on a spot. Naturally, he was surrounded by several hundred noisy, desperately poor urchins. This looked bad. He came, he went, so did the group of children follow. The ragamuffins were hardly commendable. Boys who tied rags to keep their dirty feet from freezing in the Turin cold. Pick-pockets, even thugs joined his group, teen-aged boys who were delinquents, who had been in jail, or who had a father, or mother in the penitentiary. Yet amazingly enough, John never had the slightest trouble or difficulty in holding the affection of this gang. He understood them. He knew that a word promised, was something that had to be carried out. These children were men in the wisdom of evil and sin. They had to be treated as equals, they could not be pushed aside. They respected his appalling strength, his muscles stood out like those of an athlete. He could and did, out-run, out-jump, out-sing all of them. He amazed his boys by crushing hazel- nuts between his thumb and index finger. He read consciences like a book. He peered into souls. He held the most violent in the palm of his hand. Then above all, he taught them by kindness and example. He made them understand that going to church was a privilege, not a penance. Of their own accord they soon wanted to approach the sacraments. They asked to go to confession and to Holy Communion.

His teaching had been so successful that no one in his era had ever accomplished anything like what he was now able to do. He trained and formed his children into looking on religion as something specially beautiful, something very close to their everyday life. That was how it came to be, that Don Bosco, and later his followers made of confession an act of love, of simple desire. When on an outing, it was a common sight to see Don Bosco on a rock and a child sitting or kneeling next to him. The rest howled and played and romped, but the confessions were heard, till all the ones who wanted to confess had been shriven.

Don Bosco understood how to talk things over with his boys. He would be seen with his arm around the neck of a repentant boy. He was so understanding that everything was easy. Early Sunday mornings he sat in the confessional, sometimes one or another of the boys would slip into the confessional. Don Bosco knew his children, he knew those who had scruples. He would raise his hand, "No need to confess, you can go to Holy Communion, everything is all right."

The incidents concerning Don Bosco and his boys are far too numerous. Yet a few give a clean insight into this apostle of youth. He was not anxious to ram religion down the child. He wished to win over each lonely soul. He felt that love would do the work, by loving he could lead them to God. Once they believed in him, then he had no difficulty in convincing these children what was right and what was wrong. The type of life that they should lead while at work in factories, or as apprentices in various trades. Sundays, that day of prayer was first consecrated to God, the reward came later. There were Sunday outings that became very famous. They had something exciting to look forward to, something just as thrilling to talk about that had happened. These were such poor lads, lads who until then had never found anyone interested in their welfare. Now they had a leader, they had someone who was busy with their problems, someone who loved them and cared if they made good.

There was the famous boat ride on the River Po. John hired three large boats, he and his boys were going on a pilgrimage to the Madonna of Pilone. His boys had been taught how to sing beautiful hymns and church music. On this occasion boys in all three boats started singing. People on either side of the river banks listened. Entranced, they followed. A band of musicians hearing them, started playing. Soon like the Pied Piper everyone followed the boats with singing boys. On reaching their destination, even the village inhabitants came to see the singers, they were. feasted, the boys were then treated to candy and fruit.

During these first five years life became more and more complicated. There was never a moment of certainty, always insecurity. No sooner had John opened one center than it would be closed, he and his boys were hounded, watched, policed. In. very truth, John Bosco, the peasant priest became the leader of vagabonds, those whom no one wanted, those whom they all laughed at!

Don Bosco was adamant. He insisted that children could not be transformed without constant contact with the Blessed Eucharist. Many of the clergy looked with dismay at his teachings. Backed by a few holy men, whose spiritual advice he valued, he insisted that these desperately poor boys needed and had to have God for arbitrator. With this teaching in mind he visited the factories, the work-shops. He spoke to management about the welfare of the individual boys. Sweat-shop techniques were in vogue. Once management realized these destitute boys had a protector even working conditions improved. He was even invited to come and make the rounds, to see his proteges. Even the men who hired them began to notice the change. These ruffians had changed into dependable workers, boys who were wanted, boys whom one could count on to do work well.

Not satisfied with caring for these boys, Don Bosco still made the rounds Saturdays in the prisons. There he was anxiously awaited: He always had his pockets bulging with tobacco, fruit, and candies. He knew how to touch these hearts who had no hope. He let them know that when released, he would be their friend. John had to have funds. He had to have money. The demands on his poor pocket-book were tremendous. The priest who had been trained from youth by his mother to be never in debt, was always in debt. John went to see Don Cafasso. Where could he find the money, where could he get necessary help?

Don Cafasso knew just the person. The richest widow in Turin was looking for a chaplain. If he could touch her heart he might even find a most generous benefactress. She had her own set ways, yet it was worth the risk. The Marquise de Barolo had half a dozen pet charities. She had built a sort of hospice and clinic iii honor of St. Philomena. Next door she had a school for 400 girls who enjoyed her charity. She was always doing good. She was very pleased to meet Don Bosco and promised that she would try to help. Her immediate requirements were for a chaplain, a sort of general aid, who could confess her students and her sick.

In October of 1844, Don Bosco became the chaplain for Marquise de Barolo. He assumed his new duties with joy. He had his room and board and a generous stipend. Until the students returned in November he might use two of the huge study halls. One of the rooms he converted into a chapel, the other into a playroom. Unfortunately their happiness and security were short lived. The Marquise complained that the proximity of so many rowdy boys endangered the morals of her dear, innocent girls. Don Bosco was politely requested to move at least his nomads elsewhere.

Once again Don Cafasso came to his rescue. He went to the archbishop who had ordained John. He told of his plight, and requested permission be granted that the St. Martin chapel, which had been abandoned in the center of the mills be turned over to Don Bosco's boys. This good news was greeted with shouts of joy. Don Bosco and his boys were now certain that they had a final destination. July 18, 1845 the group packed their belongings, then nomad fashion came in procession to their new location. On reaching St. Martin's, Don Bosco helped put things in order, then preached a sermon from the lovely old pulpit.

Wishing to cheer and encourage his boys, he told them in his sermon on cabbages that: "Cabbages improve when transplanted, they acquire a huge head, so you too will greatly improve by this transplanting."

Unfortunately St. Martin's chapel was to become merely a shelter. Neither mass nor benediction could be held there. It meant a general upheaval every Sunday. The location was difficult. There was no privacy. Recreation was constantly being interrupted. The right of way led through the property. Hundreds of pedestrians, trucks, mules, carts all carrying grain, or bringing back sacks of flour rushed to and from the mills.

The millers living in that vicinity protested. The dirty looks of these boys displeased them. They were rowdy, noisy and a dangerous element. They complained several times to the city authorities. What climaxed these protests was a nasty letter of attack written by the -secretary of the United Federation of Millers. Though everyone knew he had written nothing but lies this letter caused their immediate eviction.

Friends suggested that the deserted cemetery of St. Peter in Chains was what they needed. It had a huge park-like enclosure, patios, arcades, place to run, place to pray. Nothing could have been more perfect. Don Bosco made all final arrangements with the willing chaplain, Don Tesio. The day he and his boys moved in the chaplain was absent. It mattered but little, things had been installed, games set in motion, great were the rejoicings, a home at long last! Yet even in this new paradise the enemy was lurking. The housekeeper, near relative of Don Tesio, on hearing the laughter, the fun, the shouts of joy, rushed to Don Bosco. With fists in his face, assisted by her pet dogs and even a cat, she demanded he leave. More like a maniac the woman shouted and threatened. In fact she was so terrifying, so insulting, that Don Bosco thinking to pacify this irate female, called his four hundred to have religious instruction. Then there were hymns, whose beauty and pathos would have touched the most hardened heart. When prayers and rosary were over, Don Bosco sent his charges home earlier than usual, thinking the incident closed. When the priest came home his raging housekeeper informed him that revolutionaries had profaned the sanctuary, desecrated the cemetery. Don Tesio believed these lies. At her dictation he wrote to the municipal authorities. The letter coming from a priest, filled with such denunciation and hate, had the police on the heels of Don Bosco. Instantly the cemetery was surrounded, the group disbanded in such haste, that it was even impossible for him to notify his boys no longer to come there Sundays. Even their belongings could not be reached since a police cordon prevented entry.

Two days later the Lord Himself took things in hand. Don Tesio died of a heart attack two days after penning his epistle of hate. No sooner was he buried, than his irate domestic followed him to the grave. The boys were tremendously impressed, word got around Turin, that Don Bosco had great influence with God; it would be best to treat him and his boys kindly. The same thing had happened to the secretary of the millers, after his protest and the closing down of St. Martin's, that opponent had died. His destitute little son had come to Don Bosco pleading to be permitted to join his group.

A crowd of four hundred milled around the locked cemetery. Don Bosco had not been permitted to post a notice that he was forbidden from holding a meeting. A few of the more agile fellows slipped in, unknown to the guards. They picked up their religious articles, crucifix, candles, shabby vestments, the rest carted their balls, their ropes, their stilts, then forming an orderly procession, with their musical instruments, they marched to the sound of the flute, the drum, the bugle to the hospice of St. Philomena.

John had not expected to be invaded by the four hundred. Their approach had the neighborhood alerted. When he had first met these children they were a rowdy group, now it was really quite something to see. What could he do? Where would he take them? Not wishing to let them know or even guess how utterly discouraged he was, he put on a bold front, welcomed them with his usual graciousness and goodness. He promised that soon, very soon, they would have a place all of their own. It would be their very own, no one would take it from them! He even went into details explaining what the chapel, the workshops, the dormitories would be like. They would have to learn to be patient, God was trying them. In the meanwhile they would become nomads, roam like men without a country. All of this fired their enthusiasm, thrilled them. Since prayer was what was missing in their lives, they would spend Sundays making pilgrimages. They would storm the many shrines of Our Lady. No sooner suggested, than it was done. Sunday after Sunday the outings continued. For Don Bosco it was a backbreaking experience. He had to borrow an ass, or horse, on to it he loaded the meat, always a bit of sausage, salami, bread, fruit when in season, then onward the four hundred!

Don Bosco was positive that once they had no definite center where they could assemble, no roof over their heads, the boys would disband. Sad at heart because he saw the disintegration of those he loved, he said little; prayed much. Strangely, the contrary happened to what he had expected. His youth project flourished!

With winter coming at their heels he rented, in November of 1845, three bare rooms in the most disreputable section of Turin. Now, though there was snow on the ground, for it was a bitter cold winter, his boys had a roof over their heads. Night classes started so as to keep them occupied. There was no place to run and shout or exercise, so he would exercise their brains, prepare them to become better citizens, first-rate Catholics. Eyebrows were lifted in certain intellectual circles when it was heard. Don Bosco planned to educate the masses, the down-and-outs! He was teaching them reading, writing, even arithmetic. He was initiating musical reunions. Was he not mad? Only an insane person would try to put something into empty heads. What a waste of time, of effort, of money! After four wonderful months, months of tremendous mental stimulus and progress, they were all out on the street again. The inhabitants of the Moretta House, who themselves belonged to the same category as did the children, were up in arms. They demanded that the revolutionaries get out.

In March of that same year Don Bosco was able to rent a field across the street from the Moretta House. This time they moved into a huge field merely surrounded by a moth-eaten looking hedge. that neither kept people in or kept them out. At all events they were very happy. The sky was their roof. This field their paradise where they could shout and run and play to their heart's content. As long as they had their Don Bosco, nothing else really mattered. When he was along, then the rest mattered but little. Things went on very much as usual. Don Borel, John's faithful assistant, came to help with confessions. The boys seemed even more fervent than usual. It was a weekly occurrence to see the two priests by dawn in the fields, each sitting on a chair, with a kneeling penitent. The rest of the gang playing, running, busily engaged in sports or even reading. When the bugle blew, there was silence. The signal to fall into line. Then Don Bosco told his children where they would go on that day to hear Mass. At the signal to march, the bugle blew, drums rolled, the boys in orderly manner walked through town in absolute silence. Only when in the country were they free to sing and shout and make noise.

One Sunday they went to the Church of Santa Maria del Monte, high on a steep hill overlooking the Po River. They were welcomed by the Capuchins. It was Don Bosco who said mass. It was he who gave them Holy Communion, while they in turn sang in plain-chant accompanying their master beautifully. People's hearts were touched to see the reverence of these simple lads. They might be disheveled, dirty, desperately poor but they sang like angels, prayed like saints! The monks invited Don Bosco with his boys to eat in their refectory.

Unfortunately Turin's mayor, Marquis de Cavour, was not quite so touched. He had seen their filthy clothing, their rags. He had heard their noisy voices and boisterous play. There were too many complaints. Instead of disbanding, there were almost six hundred! Preposterous! He would put a stop to this, if he had to go himself. And go himself he did.

On the occasion of his august visit Don Bosco was merely perched on a crate talking about God to his boys. They listened spellbound to what he was saying, forming a semi-circle.

The Marquis had driven up in the state coach. He pointed to the field demanding: "Who is that priest? He seems to know what he is doing. Why is this assembly out here without my permission?"

Learning it was Don Bosco in person he gasped: "He is my most hated enemy. I can't stand him! He is good for nothing but stirring up trouble. Either the man is crazy or deserves to be behind bars in our jail. Bring him here!"

Don Bosco greeted the Marquis de Cavour cordially. The mayor not being in a friendly mood growled: "Political gatherings such as you now hold are extremely dangerous, they are forbidden. You have caused untold trouble to the city fathers. Command this band of youths to disperse. How is it that a priest in clerical garb dares associate with riff-raff such as this?"

Don Bosco tried to reason. Soon there was a real duel of words. Finally somewhat touched, because he knew that what the priest was saying was honest, he wished to know what concern of his was the fate of street boys. Then beginning to feel a bit uneasy, since six hundred pair of eyes were fastened on his face, six hundred lips were closed in silence, he felt he would have to be a bit less drastic than he had at first anticipated his orders would be.

In fact there was no alternative. Don Bosco flatly refused to disband his boys. When threatened by Cavour with ecclesiastical disapproval, Don Bosco informed his opponent he had the archbishop's consent. Still reticent since he had boasted about what he would do to Don Bosco, Cavour then and there appointed the chief of the police to have a guard at all times watching the movements of the priest. Whatever he did, he said, or where he went had to be reported to him in person!

From then on Don Bosco was closely followed by a police squad. Sundays, all ten formed in line. When he went to church, they placed themselves at each door, two on either side of the altar-rail, some in the aisles,they were always present, always visible. One day he commented to his boys, that he really felt honored, he was like a king being guarded by his honor guard. In reality it mattered but little to Don Bosco what they said, what they reported. what they did. He accepted without criticism the orders given. Yet it was the policemen themselves who benefitted. Never had they seen the like, never had they known of a man who could draw souls so serenely to God. One of the police was heard commenting to his companion, that Don Bosco had really missed his vocation in being a priest. He should have been a general, then he could have held in the palm of his hand the most powerful army of the world. At a mere toss of a hand hundreds of kids fell in line, kept silence, obeyed his slightest wish. He could bring order out of chaos!

Others were convinced of the contrary. They felt that this severe discipline, this insistence for order could only lead to revolution. Yet no one in town could control gangsters - he did, did it with ease!

The police were even in on some of the famous outings. The Royal burial basilica was perched on top of a high mountain to the east of Turin. A two-hour climb was nothing for this husky band of youngsters. Led by their country priest there was the joyful round of music and song. Canon Anselmetti, in charge of the church, sent a pony to meet his guests. The triumphant approach was unforgettable. The boys pushed, pulled, almost carried the pony while inside the cart sat their leader. Don Bosco was all things to all men. He could be funny; he could become frightfully serious. He had the heart of a child always ready for any lark.

Great was the surprise of not only Don Bosco but his boys to find a banquet had been prepared. It was soon devoured by the famished lads who then trooped into the basilica to sing a memorable benediction. On the way back home, the boys would return to their own quarters; some dropped off here, others there. In the end there remained only a handful of lads who helped Don Bosco bring to the residence the few things that belonged to the band. Joseph Buzzetti was one of the most faithful, he was always on hand trying to be useful, saving his master extra steps.

One day the mail brought Don Bosco a letter of protest. The owners of the field he had rented sent a notice that within two weeks their contract would terminate. Whether it was that the inhabitants of the Moretta House were displeased that the boys had not left their neighborhood, or their personal dislike of him, Don Bosco never knew. All that really mattered was that after two weeks they would all be homeless again. This was their fifth eviction. The complaints were poor: his boys had trampled the grass, the field looked as if stampeded by wild elephants!

Don Bosco was anxious. What should he do? Where could he go? How could he cope with the situation? No one wanted his boys. No one wanted to really help. They had to make noise, they had to run, they had to laugh and have fun. No? Then what? People on seeing him began to talk. He seemed all of a sudden so solemn. He looked so worried. What was the matter? He was still surrounded by an even larger group of boys. Had they noticed how absent-minded he looked, haggard, worn? He seemed hardly conscious of what was going on, of what was being said, was he totally mad?

Don Borel on learning of the latest blow had a plan. It was evidently God's will that they disband the group of boys. It was impossible to cope with so many. Cut down the number to a mere twenty. Twenty of the smallest and youngest could be handled. During that cooling off period they would wait. God would show the way, open new avenues. Perhaps they were not meant to do this work. It was evident that no one wanted to help. All doors were sealed, the impossible could not be expected! This was plain persecution. Neither could continue under these circumstances.

Don Bosco looked at Don Borel with amazement, sadness. Shocked, he retorted: "No we cannot afford to delay. We must not lose time or wait. The ground is ready, I know the ground is there. The house, a spacious court with many arcades where our children can play even in inclement weather. There are shade trees to protect them from the sun. There are priests. There are clerics. There are many helpers."

Don Borel, who had come to love and admire Don Bosco, who was his co-worker burst into tears. Sobbing, he clasped Don Bosco to him, "Poor fellow. It's been just too much for you to take any more.

Don Borel helped by Don Pachiotti insisted that John go to bed and stay in his room. Don Bosco was mad, totally crazy, insane. The news reached the ears of the Marquise de Borolo. She did not hesitate. She had been waiting for a propitious moment. She hurried to the room of her chaplain, explaining that she had wanted for a long time to talk to him, to thank him for the excellent service he had rendered to her girls. He had been the first to introduce plain chant, to teach them hymns, to have music at Mass.

"Madame Marquise, why thank me? Are you not paying me to do this work? I am in your employ."

"Well, if you must know, I merely came to tell you, that I know you are overburdened. You are ruining your health with too much work. Do be sensible. Listen to my advice. I mean it for your good. You cannot continue to help in my charitable enterprise and at the same time direct your boys. Content yourself in looking after my girls here at St. Philomena. You must give up your visits to the prisons, to the Cottolengo hospital."

"Madame, God has aided me up till now, why all of a sudden would He abandon me? My health? No need to worry, it is excellent. I am not alone, I have two able helpers in Don Borel and Don Pachiotti."

The Marquise continued in a patronizing tone: "I cannot bear to see you so exhausted. If you continue with this load you will be killing yourself. Naturally my works of charity are bound to suffer if your health fails. There are certain rumors concerning your sanity. Your poor head is very sick. You do not know it. We can see that it is so. Your very opposition to the mayor, my cousin the Count de Cavour. Unfortunately I feel obliged to ask you to choose. Either you leave your boys, or you leave us here. I give you adequate time in which to reflect upon so grave a matter." "Madame, there is no need to hesitate. I have my reply ready now. You with all your money and riches will have absolutely no difficulty in replacing me. Who will take over penniless street children? These boys have no one but me. When I leave them all hope vanishes! It is my duty to resign since I must make a choice. I will be free to thus occupy myself completely with my boys."

Haughtily, because she felt she had lost, she asked, "Your health is totally wrecked, how will you manage to survive?"

"God has always aided me in the past, be sure Madame, that He will not abandon me now."

"You are a sick man. Daily you plunge into greater debt. You are not wise, not prudent. Look, I am willing to let you keep your salary, in fact, I may even increase it. Promise me though to take a rest. Go for a year, or two, or even three at my expense, go anywhere you choose, but you must leave this work so as to regain your health. When you are strong again, come back to me. I will welcome you with open arms, you can start where we leave off. Otherwise, Don Bosco I will be obliged to put you out. Think of these consequences seriously."

"I have dedicated my life to youth. Your offer is such that I could not accept it. God has destined this work for me. It is impossible that I now abandon it."

"You are dismissed! From this moment on you can no longer live here. Your room, your board, your wages cease. You have dared to prefer these vagabonds to me. I will find someone else. God forgive you for this insult, but go."

Humbly, very humbly, Don Bosco reminded the Marquise that her action was not wise. Her hasty words could cause more gossip. People might misconstrue what she was doing. He would leave, but it would look better after she had a cooling off period. Then and there it was decided that a period of three months would be sufficient. During that time Don Bosco would find a new position. He would retire as a chaplain and break in a new one.

Chapter 13

Oratory

Being intelligent, Don Bosco knew he was now living on borrowed time. Things had reached an impasse! His children would be out on the street in a few days. To make matters even worse he himself would soon have no roof over his head. What he minded most of all was that the stipends he needed so badly to feed his boys would stop at the end of the three months. What would happen next? Palm Sunday, April 5, 1846, was the day Don Bosco decided to take heaven by storm. Though his boys might look like scoundrels, there were some with rare angelic virtues. He rounded them up in the playground that morning. The field was to be their playground a few hours longer. What he did not tell them was that that night they would have to move out! Easter Sunday there would be nowhere to go, no future meeting place! Instead of subjecting them to his feelings of despair he cheerfully announced that they would make a very special pilgrimage to the Madonna of the Campagna. They prayed the rosary all the way. As they approached the monastery the bells could be heard ringing a canticle to Our Lady. The children later commented on the fact that their arrival had been heralded by music.

What they did not know at the time was, that when the monastery bells began ringing, Father Fulgentius rushed about to find out why the bells were rung. As Father Guardian he knew the time-table by heart. Who had given orders to ring? The sacristan was just as amazed, for who had told the time-keeper to ring the chimes? Finally neither the superior nor sacristan nor time keeper had touched the bells. They had rung by themselves.

Once back from their long pilgrimage the boys went back to their playground in the open. Don Bosco realized he would have to tell his boys that everything would have to be moved away. That night they must disband. Hesitating to spoil their innocent fun, he refrained from giving out the bad news. The last moment was time enough for such unpleasantness. All day long these thoughts had plagued his mind. All day long he had fought the darkness that gripped his tormented soul.

John knew he had but two more hours. With the coming of night all the hopes, the aspirations were doomed to go. With fear gnawing at his heart he watched the gradual setting of the sun, the coming of that dreaded curtain of night. Dusk was creeping over the horizon. When that curtain fell, so would the curtain fall upon his work. His apostolate would end. Yet never had the harvest seemed whiter: never greater. Alone, all alone, forsaken by even his most intimate friends, Don Bosco clung to God.

The boys had not the faintest suspicion of what their leader was enduring in silence. They were playing as only healthy, rowdy lads can. Shouting, jumping, laughing utterly unconcerned about the morrow, they tried to cram into the day a few more jumps, a few more ball games. Don Bosco moved away from his children. He went to the other end of the field since he realized he would no longer be able to control his emotions. Then he wept. Wept because the future was so desperate. He wept because no one wanted his boys. Without a leader, without funds, without a roof over their heads there really was no hope. He could hold the lads, but deep down they were still untrained, half savage, half good. He watched them like a hawk because he knew that each was a potential thief, some even had murder in their hearts. With love and prayer and close union with God, these evil habits would subside. The good that lay untouched would come to the surface to take over. Evil habits would wither and die. The possibilities for good were so very great that his heart bled. He seemed to be the only one who looked at their souls, not at the exterior veneer.

Lifting his tired, tear-stained eyes to heaven, Don Bosco cried aloud in bitter anguish: "My God... my God... why do you not show me the place. . . the place where I am definitely meant to settle? How much longer is this uncertainty to last? Have pity at least on the children. Tell me what to do, where to look!"

Don Bosco came to himself with a sudden start. Still lost in prayer, he thought he had heard a voice, yet he knew it could hardly be so. A voice stammered: "Are you looking for land on which to establish a laboratory?"

John wondering if his ears had deceived him turned, "No, not a laboratory but an oratory."

The weird looking peasant stuttered: "What's the difference a laboratory or an oratory? If you really need a place you better hurry and see the proprietor. He has land that he will rent. Joseph Pinardi is his name."

At that auspicious moment Father Peter Mala, one of Don Bosco's seminary friends came to see him. He had made a point of coming to the slums to see how he was faring. The horrible news of his mind going had been frightening. He could not believe that a man with his power of reasoning, his deep spirit of faith and prayer would be insane. Then noticing how very queer Don Bosco acted, went up to his friend and seized his arm.

"John are you sick? I've never seen you like this before?"

Still bewildered. John replied: "Oh goodness, no, I am alright. Something wonderful has happened. I cannot believe the words I have just heard are true. Did you hear what that man was saying?"

The priest friend said, "Why yes, he mentioned that a Joseph Pinardi wanted to see you." "That's it. That's it! In less than two hours my boys and I are forced to leave this place. We have nowhere to go. Now, this good soul comes to tell me I can find land that will suit my purpose. Please take care of my gang till I get back."

Don Bosco was led by the stuttering peasant across a field to a ramshackled hut about to fall to pieces. It was held in place by a roof not more than three feet off the ground. John recognized it immediately. The place had a rather unsavory reputation. John looked at the shed, shook his head, "Sorry this is not what I am looking for, the roof is too low."

Pinardi, the owner, had joined them. "That is easily remedied. I will dig five feet of earth away, lay you a wooden floor, even put in a staircase. I have been watching you and your kids, I want you to establish your laboratory here. My price, you will see, is most reasonable."

"My good friend, this is not a laboratory but an oratory that I want to establish. An oratory is a chapel where youth can congregate."

"Fine, fine, that is all the better. I happen to be a singer, you can count on my voice for the choir. I'll bring along two chairs, my wife and I will be your steady parishioners. At home, we have just the kind of lamp you need for the chapel. You'll have a wonderful oratory. We will help."

Don Bosco had no chance to say a word. The enthusiasm of Joseph Pinardi was so great. Finally he added: "If you will consent to lower the ground five feet, so that we can stand upright under the roof I will accept your offer. How much do you want?"

"350 lire payment annually. I have been offered much more money by those people over there," pointing to a house of ill repute across the street, "but I prefer you to take over the place since you will use it for religious purposes."

"I agree, on one condition. I want you to throw in the plot of land over there for another 20 lire. I need more ground for my boys to play on. Then you will have to make a promise. I want everything arranged so that by next Sunday we can have our Easter Mass celebrated here in the Pinardi shed."

"Good, the contract is sealed. You will have your way. I'll have everything in readiness by Good Friday, come and see me then. You will be able to move in."

By the time they had finished their agreement it was dark. Don Bosco shook hands then raced across to the neighboring field where his children were playing. To see him run one might have thought he was stark mad.

Father Mala strode towards Don Bosco wondering what was up. But the dreamer had no time for idle words of explanations. He clapped his hands, assembled the boys.

"My boys," his voice almost broke with emotion, "your courage and your prayers have been rewarded. Easter Sunday I expect to see you all at the Pinardi Shed. Right across the way from here. You will find it easily. We are now at long last in possession of our own oratory. Never before have we had so much." Then as if he had before him a blueprint, he began to enumerate what they would have one day: "Have faith, have courage. There will be a church, a refectory, classrooms, arcades under which you can play when it snows and rains, and a huge, huge playground."

There were deafening shouts of joy, with "Viva Don Bosco, Viva Don Bosco!" the strongest six picking him up as if he were a feather and gleefully carrying him back to the hostel of St. Philomena.

John had ever since he had been nine years old dreamed dreams. He had so often seen crowds of children, vast dwellings of all sizes that he almost believed by now that they really existed. This Holy Week of 1846 had really been filled with wonders. The archbishop had given permission to bless the Pinardi Shed on Good Friday, faithful Joseph Pinardi true to his word had everything in readiness. Now at long last, Don Bosco had his own house of prayer. The oratory had come into existence. One of his dreams had materialized!

Easter Sunday, April 12th, the very atmosphere around the poorest suburb and slums of Turin seemed charged. Everyone knew about these slums. The location was appalling with the hangman's square but a block distant. Crime punishable by death. The execution took place almost at the Bosco front door! No worse neighborhood could have been found. Then there was one inn that had an unsavory reputation. The Albergo delta bella Gardiniera was so close that its noisy cabaret disturbed the boys while at Mass. This inn of the Beautiful Gardner had drinking parties all during the Sabbath.

On Easter, as on all other Sundays nothing very special had ever happened in Valdocco. The chirping of the birds was only broken by brawls or the curses of the drunks. Now, suddenly instead of the derelicts heading towards the many inns, a strange crowd headed in the same direction scurried along the boulevards. The leafless acacia trees seemed weird in the early dawn, as hurrying groups, many in rags walked steadily, happily towards Valdocco. This motley crowd, that seemed unending, came in silence, some even whispered. There was no noise, other than the tramp, tramp of hundreds of children's feet.

This drove of children pounced on Don Bosco who fortunately was prepared. No matter how early, he and they were happy to have a place all of their own. Don Bosco had asked a group of priests to help with confessions. Chairs were placed everywhere and everywhere kneeling boys waited for absolution. There were the handsome and the pockmarked. There were the happy and the bitter, with disappointment written on their ugly scarred face. There were the sinful and the innocent. Urchins with filthy shocks of hair, those with their teeth missing and not one among this vast crowd of boys, well dressed. Not one had even new clothes, many had seats out of their pants, torn shirts, caps that made them resemble brigands.

Mass should have been said at nine o'clock. There were far too many confessions to be heard, it was nearer to the noon hour before Don Bosco was released from his duties as confessor. Perhaps - even so, there were advantages to that. No need of his meeting any of the celebrities until he had said his Mass. Now they were all flocking to see the miracle. The tune had changed, Don Bosco was a wonder worker, Don Bosco was great, he was the man of the day and of the hour, Priests, those who called him stark mad, and insane, now came to work for him. Notables and even city officials came by coach and on horseback. Word had made the rounds that Archbishop Fransoni was behind the venture, he not only approved, but was coming in person to administer the sacrament of Confirmation. The ones who had been first to ridicule, to criticize, to destroy his work, were there again, this time to gape at Don Bosco, to marvel at how rowdy ruffians could be turned into docile choir and altar boys!

Exteriorly there was really nothing to see. Nothing worth coming out to the suburbs to see. Fields at that time of spring were barren. The Pinardi Shed was cold, damp, most unattractive. Yet within the dwelling with its sloping roof was a scene so touching that even the hardened police sent by Cavour wept with emotion. The boys had sung that high Mass as if a choir of angels had come on earth. In tattered clothing they marched to the Communion rail with hands joined and down-cast eyes. Their reverent bearing was most edifying.

The chapel blessed on that Easter morning became for the next six years the Oratory place of worship. Don Bosco began to spend more and more time in the Oratory, less and less in St. Philomena's. Though he had his room there, he returned to be among his boys, many of whom had to be forced to go home; so great was their love for the Oratory.

A chair became his pulpit from which he taught his boys their catechism and bible history. From it he directed the choir. Yet all was not merely religion. He encouraged his boys to enjoy their games. His boys could shout all they wanted. There was no one to repress them. Games were varied, some had Don Bosco teach them how to jump; ropes were strung across hurdles; vaulting poles aided those who tried to vault. The acrobats were taught to stand on heads and hands, how to wrestle, and walk the tight-rope. The conjurers had new tricks that they tried daily. Time flew, the boys grew.

Night classes began in earnest. Small groups were formed, headed by volunteers who came from some of the most outstanding families in town. Talented artists came to instruct the boys in singing and music. Every inch of space was utilized. The sacristy became a classroom, behind the altar, the choir, and in good weather the classes were given outside. A few extra rooms were rented in the Pinardi house itself. There was reading, writing, with a huge black-board on which were written big letters. The fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds had a special place in John's heart. He could suffer for them and with them. He knew how they felt. It required infinite patience to drill words into their minds, to get them to memorize phrases. Education, he insisted was not merely for the elect and select few. Education was for all.

When not busily engaged in teaching, he spent hours far into the morning writing. There were no suitable texts, no books to use as classbooks. What to place in the hands of his children? Undaunted he wrote and wrote and wrote. In time his works became the masterpieces used in schools all over the country.

Don Borel began to worry. His friend looked tired. He was really overworked. There were the mounting bills. Bills that had to be paid. Debts that had to be met. Food, more and more food consumed by his boys with their huge appetites. People were generous, yet his work was too new to have a group of benefactors. Don Borel managed to have Don Bosco take a few days rest in the country. Outside of Turin, four miles from the city confines was a retreat house just for priests. Exhausted, he had acquiesced. Sassi was near enough that he could return, when he had to, at the end of the week. Becchi was just too far away, he could not take enough time to walk there the twenty miles, for by now he was far too poor to afford the stagecoach. Yet the country air always worked wonders, there was nothing like being away from the noise and turmoil of the huge city! Perhaps that was the way Don Bosco felt, but that was not the way children felt. A group of 400 boys whom he heard weekly at the select school of St. Barbe were having an annual retreat. They were determined to make a general confession but wanted their usual confessor Don Bosco. Nothing would do for them but to go to him, since he could not be reached in time for the closing exercises. Early one morning there was much excitement. Sassi was invaded by 400 boys. Rain, distance - nothing mattered. Though the boys were soaked to the skin and famished, and to climax it had lost their way, they had to see Don Bosco. They had to go to him for confession. When he explained it would take all day, they agreed to having a dozen priests step in and assist. Finally the larder was raided, supplies sent for in an effort to feed the boys before sending them back to school.

This hasty expedition had evil consequences. Don Bosco already so overworked returned to St. Philomena's with a bad cold. He was taken to his room desperately ill. During the next eight days he hung between life and death. Don Bosco had bronchial pneumonia.

Quite resigned, he gladly received Extreme Unction. He was ready to meet his Maker. Life had never been kind to him. Life had - been hard from the very start. Now that his work was finally established, he felt he was no longer needed. He knew Don Borel and others would take his place, his dear children would be cared for.

Don Borel had sent a carriage to bring Mamma Margherita to town quickly. If she wished to see her John alive, she had better hurry. Joseph accompanied her, faithful Joseph who was always there when most needed. Don Borel had hoped that on seeing his mother, Don Bosco would rally, would perhaps want to live. He was sadly mistaken. Don Bosco had no other wish but to die. He pleaded for Don Bosco to have pity on the boys. But neither this, nor the coming of Mamma Margherita helped one iota. Mamma Margherita was just as resigned to the Will of God as was her son. She knew he had led a good holy life and was ready to welcome death, since that was God's wish.

Next, Don Borel had a much more difficult task. He had to face the boys, to tell them the truth. That Sunday there would be no Don Bosco, nor the next. Don Bosco was dying, even the doctors had given up all hope, there could be no recovery. He was hemorrhaging so badly that he had wasted away to a mere shadow of his former self. Every effort had been made to spare their leader, but the specialists had given them the fatal verdict. There could be no hope.

The chidren refused to accept the truth. Since he was going to die, they would see to it that a miracle was worked. They refused to let him die, they wanted their Don Bosco back. Then it was that heaven was taken by storm. Not by merely hundreds of boys, but by all their relatives and friends. No one was left unsolicited, everyone had to promise to pray, pray, pray. Night and day the church next to St. Philomena's was packed with boys on their knees, weeping and praying. Boys who had never cared, now made promises, wrestled with God for a life - and bargained that that life might be spared them.

One fateful Saturday, specialists and house doctors shook their heads. The consultation was as had been suspected. The patient was spitting blood. Congestion had set in. The crisis was due any moment. Death was a mere matter of hours.

Mamma Margherita stayed on... nursing her son and praying.

Don Borel knowing the end was very near, made one final attempt. He knelt by the side of his friend. He roused him back to life by shaking his arm. "Could you not tell God just this, `Lord, if it please You, cure me!"

But Don Bosco paid no attention. He was by then too far gone to even speak.

Outside the death bell was tolling. In the streets were knots of people all looking up towards the room that was occupied by Don Bosco. The boys who could, crowded into the chapel. They lit candles, they made vows, they fasted, did without food. Only then did the population realize what he meant to these destitute boys. They showed their veneration, their love for him in a thousand different ways. The prayer he had taught them became the weapon they used to save him.

Once again Don Borel made a desperate attempt. He spoke of the hundreds of boys downstairs waiting, praying, weeping. He told of their loyalty, affection, concern. He told of their great need of him. Then he demanded in an insistent voice, that since he could not talk, he would at least repeat in his heart the words he would say for him.

The tired, emaciated face of Don Bosco with the stamp of death already marking his features, smiled. Don Borel said aloud, very slowly: "Lord... if... it... pleases. . You. . . cure. . . me. . ."

The dying man's lips had moved. Though too weak to utter a word, he had said the prayer.

Don Borel rose from his knees, threw up his hands into the air with a gesture of triumph, tears streaming down his face. "Thank God, thank God! I know now you will be cured. You will live."

Don Bosco sank into a coma. Gradually his breathing became less and less labored.

The next morning Don Bosco awoke and was out of danger. Strangely enough he had his strength back and was totally cured. He still was very weak but he was alive, even able to get up. At the end of the third day he was obliged to present himself to his boys. They wanted to talk to him. Using a cane he went to the first hall where they had met at the outset of his work with them. Their sorrow had been tragic; their joy now was explosive.

In a moment of wildest exultation they lifted their friend and protector off his feet. Shouting with joy they formed a procession. The boys had prepared a giant reception. Flowers were strewn along the road, flowers covered the hedges, they had decorated the chapel till it was a mass of flowers. Loud and long were the "Viva. . , viva. . . viva Don Bosco" louder even more joyful than the thunderous Te Deum that sounded as if the roof of the Pinardi Shed would cave in.

Mamma Margherita who had been with John during the last days of his illness had followed the boys to the Oratory. She had never heard such commotion, seen such joy. The happy faces told her that -at last her son had found his niche. The chapel at the Oratory was so packed, that had Don Borel not squeezed her past the throng she would not have gotten inside. Once there she realized that her John was really just beginning his work. She prayed that God would grant him the grace to carry on a work that had touched so many souls.

That same evening Don Cafasso approached Mamma Margherita. John's stay under the roof of the Marquise de Borolo had come to an end. He was not strong enough to stand any strain. The archbishop obliged him to convalesce. Could he go home to Becchi? The Marquise like some petulant child instead of giving in, had used Don Bosco's illness as an excuse to put in a wedge. She had hoped to break down his resistance. It would be wisest to make the break then and there. He had a coach at their disposal, if Mamma Margherita cared to, they could leave that very night.

What a strange meeting it had been, these two women. The haughty, well meaning Marquise with her domineering manners - her great wealth, her desire to do good, and the simple peasant from the hill-country, so understanding, so simple, so very holy. The one with wealth had lost, the simple motherly soul had won. She had won more than she realized, her son had come back to her. He would soon ask her to sacrifice all she had to work with him.

Don Bosco was back in his beloved Becchi, happy that he could give his mother the joy of this unexpected reunion. She ruled like a queen midst the simple peasant folk, who came to her for help and advice. Her charity in her old age was just as proverbial, as it had been in her younger days. Nothing had changed, only instead of being alone so much of the time, there were the two grandchildren who played in and out of the house. There was only a yard between the two houses. Joseph and his wife took a keen interest in her welfare. He now managed everything, insisted that she had to rest. To take life easy. So she still organized what should be done within the house, leaving the farming matters to capable Joseph. Her grandson and granddaughter were her pride and joy. Mamma Margherita was consulted, not once but all day long because they knew that grandmother had an answer for everything.

Joseph had been more than generous. He took a lively interest in his brother's apostolate. He had built himself a large roomy home. The attic had been made into a spacious dormitory where thirty or fifty boys could easily sleep on sacks of straw. He had cut a door out of the side of his home so that Don Bosco would have a chapel all to himself. There during the period of his convalescence he could slip into the chapel and pray. Daily he celebrated the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass. Instead of night prayers being said as in the past in the kitchen, they were said in the chapel. Times had changed. God had been most wonderful!

Mamma Margherita knew it was up to her to see that her son regained his full strength. He had been weakened by his grave illness. The doctors had forbidden his hearing confessions. He was forbidden by the same doctors from all preaching. To do so might impair the damage to his lungs. It would be at least two years before he could climb into the pulpit. Though he had been miraculously cured, they wished to take every precaution.

Now that Don Bosco could do no real parochial work, he spent time in his mother's kitchen garden. He helped her with her herbs. She raised her own sage, the basil and chives were dried each autumn for winter use. The precious rosemary was carried indoors to be nursed all winter in the kitchen window.

Margherita made her own ricotta and mozzarella, a cheese that she did not age, but served almost as soon as she had made it. She took pains to see that John ate, though he had grown careless in this respect. Living for so long off of watery soups he had lost the taste of good food. Joseph brought over for her to prepare roast goat, the head she would spice with herbs, then invite friends and neighbors to the feast.

Month after month had come and gone. Blissful days for Mamma Margherita who deep in her heart knew one day the joy of having John all to herself would end.

Things in Turin were not the same when Don Bosco was not' there. The boys complained. They wrote, scribbling in strange hieroglyphics, letters telling him to come back. The ones who were more fortunate and had the time, tramped out to Becctii. Not a day passed without a group coming to stay. They were put up in Joseph's dormitory. What hours of bliss, what joy!

The distance these children hiked was 20 miles just one way! Those who had no work enjoyed the fresh country air, the walks at twilight across the fields, the intimate talks about God Who gave each daily bread. Finally things came to a climax. A reunion held in Turin of all the boys sounded more like an ultimatum, a call to arms. Would Don Bosco come back soon? How soon? If not, then they would move the Oratory to Becchi. Life without him was unbearable. Rather renounce the opportunities that awaited them for work in Turin than do without him.

Don Bosco told his boys who came to act as speakers for the rest of his children, that they would have to wait a little while. He promised his boys that as soon as the last leaves fell from the trees he would be back in their midst.

Mamma Margherita was a most efficacious nurse. She saw to it that her son wore rubber stockings. He had varicose veins that kept him awake at night. He suffered from habitual insomnia and his poor digestion gave her much worry. She knew that the months of inactivity had been devastating. Don Bosco had his books but without his boys he was lost. Then one Sunday word came from Murialdo that there would be no Sunday sermons, the preacher had not turned up. Don Bosco throwing caution to the winds climbed the pulpit, speaking to these simple people so touchingly about God that several who had been away from the sacraments came back to God in tears.

Don Bosco made up his mind that from then on he would no longer use medications or turn to doctors for help. That resolution of his was Kept for a period of twenty-seven years. It was this that convinced Min the time had come to cease his convalescence and to go back w Turin. He made a secret pact with God, the God who had prolonged his life, to serve without ceasing or thought of self. Already in 1834 he had suffered from inflamed eyes. They always gave him trouble, when he wrote by candlelight. He had ruined them as a student, yet if God wished his services, God would see to that his sight remained good. Not one to worry unduly about health or food, he now began his plans for leaving Becchi.

In Turin, Den Cafasso and Don Borel had removed Don Bosco's bed and a few belongings from the room in St. Philomena's. They had rented a small apartment on the ground floor of the Pinardi House. Being near to the Oratory Don Bosco would be able to snatch a few hours of quiet and peace, yet be on hand to supervise the goings on of his boys. Don Bosco lay awake at night worrying. The Pinardi House served his purpose magnificently. Unfortunately some of the women who rented other apartments were neither virtuous nor devout. They owned a good business across the street. It was these women that gave the house and location such a bad reputation. No priest could wisely live there without undue gossip. Don Cafasso had come to Becchi to talk over the final arrangements. He had discussed the matter thoroughly with those who knew the situation and knew its implications. If Don Bosco could prevail upon his mother joining him as sort of housekeeper, she could help him, and it would be best to prevent any gossip from the start.

Don Bosco had asked for time to think things over. No one knew better than he how much his mother was entitled to lead an old age of solitude and prayer. She had done so much for him. She had played a great part in his becoming a priest. She had taken the raw, crude material put in her hands by God, to fashion and mould a spiritual vessel. Now, how could he dare ask her to renounce a life of leisure for one of sacrifice? Was it right to tie her down to an environment of sin and sordidness? Was it fair to ask her to dedicate the remaining years of life to problem children, children who at times were difficult, even exceedingly dangerous? Though Mamma Margherita was young in mind, he knew how tired and old she had become in struggling so as to make ends meet. She had struggled from the day his father had died until he had become a priest. There had been a period of great peace and happiness in the realization that she had accomplished what God had asked of her. Now?

Don Bosco put the vital question to his mother: "Mamma mia, I have to move into the Pinardi House. You have seen the kind of people who live in the Valdocco slums. They are not the kind you are accustomed to, nor the type you care to associate with. I can have no other companion but you. . . will you come?"

The greatness of this heroic woman was shown in her immediate reply: "John if you feel that this is really the will of God for me, I am ready to go with you. I can leave when you leave."

"Mamma mia, do you realize the huge sacrifice you are about to make? You have no wealth to leave behind, but in this home you are its sole mistress, you are loved and respected. It is going to be very, very hard for you in Turin."

Margherita, no sooner had she made up her mind than she was busy packing. She put aside all the things she knew she would need _ in cooking for her son. She sent ahead the house-keeping utensils, the bedding, and a supply of meal and beans and fruit. Most of her personal things she packed in a basket. These she would carry when she left for Turin.

On the 3rd of November 1846, John and his mother left Becchi at dawn, they had ahead of them a twenty-mile walk. Margherita was almost sixty years of age; her son was still not very strong. Yet they were too poor to afford to go by stagecoach. Even for a good walker, the road to Turin was long and arduous. Before they left home, Margherita had decided it would be wisest to sell a plot of land and one of her vineyards. She realized how deep in debt her son had sunk. She knew that money was essential. She wished to help him all she could.

On reaching the outskirts of Turin they happened to meet a priest who knew them. Don Vola seeing how tired both mother and son looked, asked them where they had come from. Understanding that it had been all the way from Becchi, and on foot because they had not the money to pay for a coach, he asked what preparations had been made. Learning none, he shook his head and seemed upset.

"You will get to the Pinardi House when it is dark. Too late to do any shopping. I wish I could help you." He put his hand into his pocket to look for some change, but to his dismay found he had no money. Then he took his watch: "I want you to keep this as a token of my admiration and esteem. Sell it, you will at least have some money with which to start. May God be with you."

Don Bosco smiled as he looked at his mother, "You see, Divine Providence is already thinking of us. I am sure He will never abandon us."

Fortunately the apartment in the Pinardi House. was on the ground floor. At long last Don Bosco had a place in the heart of Turin, where he was his own master, where he had no one telling what he could and could not do. Where he was free to choose his own mode of charity.

Mamma Margherita at once began to make the beds, to set up her pots and pans, to make a fire with the kindling wood that some kind friend had chopped. She saw with satisfaction that everything was extremely poor but neat. The walls had been whitewashed. There were beds in each room, a table, a straw chair, a tiny mirror hanging over the cracked washbasin. She lit one of the two candles she had carried with her for just such an emergency. The pale flicker of the candle was like a beacon to the boys, they had been flocking to the house hoping night after night that Don Bosco would soon be there. Word spread quickly he was home.

Don Bosco had returned to Turin. This time he had come to stay. His mother in looking about had smiled: "Here at least I can live very humbly and quietly. There will be none of the many worries we had in Becchi with the farm. How wonderful dear John, I will just have you to care for."

John said but little, he wondered how long their solitude would last. Knowing his children he presumed they would soon be invaded.

Mamma Margherita realized the misery and want. The chapel was very poorly furnished. She had not told her son, but she had brought along her wedding dress. She had always wanted to make a chasuble. Unfortunately she had never had the time or opportunity. She took it apart, cut it into vestments. The best of her bed linen she used for altar cloths, amices, purificators, and corporals. Everything she now had was generously converted into something useful for the service of God or for John's boys.

Once the vestments were sewn she realized they were incomplete without gold braid. How could they afford such a luxurious item? Until then Mamma Margherita had never removed her golden wedding ring, she took this off, also a golden necklace given her by her parents on her wedding day. She sold these for cash to spend on new gold braid for the chasuble. Then one evening when the sewing was completed, she looked at her son and told him everything.

"Gone are the dear remembrances of my husband and parents. They cannot end better than in being used for God and poor children." There were tears in her eyes. She had made a tremendous sacrifice, yet she was not one to have regrets. Then she sang a Piedmont ditty with a sweet refrain which sounded very pretty in her native dialect, for Mamma Margherita had a lovely voice.

"What do I care?

The world it mocks me!

My heart abounds with joy, I now, no longer have a cent."

That night Mamma Margherita was very happy. SHe had sacrificed everything. It was to take her a long time to accustom herself to the ways of a great city.

Chapter 14.

Boys! Boys! Boys!

The four rooms of the Pinardi House were invaded by boys. Curious boys, happy boys, boisterous boys, boys who just wanted to greet Mamma Margherita. Many had seen her in Becchi. They were so happy that she had come to stay with them. Was she really and truly going to stay? Questions. More questions. Youth with its problems, its spills, its tumbles. They soiled the furniture, they turned things inside out and upside down. Then night after night there were classes, more classes, classes every place, in every conceivable corner. Little groups, big groups.

Little by little Don Bosco acquired more and more space from Mr. Pinardi. Gradually all the tenants were evicted. They insulted Mamma Margherita, and her son and the owner. Nothing really mattered except that the boys had room to play and be happy in. They had their own Oratory all to themselves.

Night after night every window of the Oratory and the Pinardi House was lit up like a Christmas tree. The house was bulging with humanity, all ages - all types - each attempting to learn something. Monitors were being trained to assume duties, to carry on classes, to help whenever it was possible. It needed an army of helpers because neither Don Bosco nor his priest co-workers could now handle the boys. There were too many, there was too much to do, there was too huge a program.

For the very first time poor boys were being given musical appreciation. In those days it was not customary to sing at Mass. Don Bosco loved the plain chant, he taught this to his boys. He succeeded in having noted musicians teach the violin, piano and other musical instruments. No one had ever assembled fifty or sixty children into an orchestra. It worked. Don Bosco used the same technique with tailoring, shoemaking,, and carpentry Always getting the best of teachers to pass on the best in that specific line of industry. What he had learned as a child, he wanted his boys to know about. Why should apprentices be forced to slave long, arduous hours in unhealthy conditions, when they could learn the same things under his roof and at the same time be protected? If his boys went out, he made quite certain whom they worked for, and what they learned. What were the working conditions? Who did they associate with? In later years his bootmakers, his tailors, his printers, his mechanics were the most prized and sought for tradesmen in Italy.

Don Bosco knew from sad experience that the trained worker was not exploited as were helpless children. Too many lives had been ruined by unscrupulous employees. His best mode of curbing child labor was by giving youth a chance to go to school. He planned to establish workshops within his school system.

He felt very keenly that every child had a right to lead a normal, happy child's life freed from slavery. Boys had to have hours of play, hours of work and study. Children had a Godgiven right to enjoy the security of home, if this was denied them by misfortune or accident then he would provide that roof, that place to sleep, to eat, to study and play. A capable worker became a capable Christian given the right type of education.

None of this happened overnight. Yet the mushroom growth at times was staggering, almost frightening. Where did these boys come from? Penniless Don Bosco managed to do more for them than all the other combined agencies in Piedmont. When, indomitable Marquis de Cavour still insisted something was phony about the methods of Don Bosco, he sent a police chief to search the house. Instead of finding forbidden propaganda or political pamphlets they found bills. The incident was most embarrassing to unhappy Mamma Margherita and her son.

Going into Don Bosco's private office they had found nothing of importance. Somewhat disappointed they came to a locked drawer in his desk. They demanded he open the drawer. He did as was requested. Mamma Margherita stood at the door wringing her apron with her hands.

The infuriated police opened envelope after envelope. "What have you here?" they asked, "Where are your private papers?"

"My debts are my personal secret. It's bad enough to let you in on them, that is why I keep this drawer locked."

Even the police had to laugh. Mamma Margherita with her true spirit of hospitality brought the men some wine.

Don Bosco taking a few of the lesser bills handed them over to the chief of police. "Do you think the Marquis de Cavour might be interested in paying my baker and butcher?"

No matter how many bills Don Bosco owed, his reputation never suffered. He had such implicit faith in Divine Providence which helped him in the most miraculous manner. In fact miracles at the Oratory were almost everyday occurrences. One Sunday the sacristan preparing the ciborium had forgotten to replenish it. Don Bosco saying Mass came to the Communion. He opened the tabernacle, removed the ciborium, noticed it was almost empty. There were some 650 boys waiting to receive Holy Communion. Don Bosco lifted his eyes to heaven, sighed, then began distributing Holy Communion. When the entire 650 boys including his own mother had received Communion he put back the ciborium with as many hosts as there had been at the start.

Everyone present knew instantly what had happened. Later when asked what he had done, he told his boys: "Christ wished to enter into your hearts, as much as you longed to receive Him. Why would He penalize you because of the forgetfulness of the sacristan? This should remind you to go often to Holy Com- munion."

Mamma Margherita's troubles had only just begun. She had many trials in store, many problems until one day when some of the older boys could become monitors and help her in her kitchen. She did everything, the washing, the ironing, the cooking and shopping. Of course she was ably assisted by her son. He never found his duties too great not to lend her a hand.

Mamma Margherita could not cook without her kitchen garden. After her first winter she soon had a perfectly beautiful one, which was her pride and joy. The sage grew into a huge bush, the parsley formed a border for cabbages, broccoli and sprouts.

Sometimes Mamma Margherita permitted the youngest or the most lonely or homesick lad to help her in the kitchen. Her patience was unfathomable. There was never any grumbling on her part if there was too much salt in the minestrone, or the meat was too touch because it had not been cooked enough. She liked to teach the children how to be helpful. Her greatest joy was a huge rose bush by the kitchen. Daily she watered it, she had trained it to climb in garlands over the gloomy windows. Then one fine day some silly boys, when told to remove the weeds, had hacked at her rose bush by mistake and almost killed it. They had left the obnoxious weeds. Mamma Margherita was furious. She could not bear to see beauty ruined. When she told her John about the incident he remarked with his usual patience, that the boys were city born and bred. It was the penalty they paid for never having lived on a farm. Poor boys, they had missed so much!

If there were moments of great depression, there were the joyful days as well. As a result of the fight for the unification of Italy, Pope Piux IX was once again in exile. This time in the Italian to wn of Gaeta. The leaders who had planned the revolt for a united Italy did not wish the head of the Papal States around. In order to help the Pope in his destitute condition, an ancient but long forgotten custom was revived. The public contributed for Peter's Pence. Don Bosco whose love for the Papacy was living and real, urged his boys to make every sacrifice. He wanted them to know their donation would be given to the Pope in their name. The Holy Father was much touched. He had already heard about this group. He requested that that money be used in securing rosaries which he then blessed. They were sent to the Oratory with his thanks and in his name.

Since the unexpected was the order of the day, when the unexpected happened it took no one by surprise. Complaints had flocked to the archbishop. Parish priests protested that Don Bosco was stealing children from their parishes. Would His Excellency intervene? By what authority did a crazy country priest draw these children away? Not only did he lack dignity that distinguishes a priest, but he did things unknown to men of their high dignity. He played, ran, jumped. It was scandalous. He was known to march through the city with his band-playing boys!

Though the Archbishop tried to pacify the critics, he failed. Sending for Don Bosco, Archbishop Fransoni suggested that the critics interrogate his boys. They would then learn that most of them came from great distances, a few even from Switzerland.

What the Archbishop did not tell him was that they were insisting that he be removed from his work at the Oratory. They wanted the peasant priest sent to a mountain parish. They could not understand how he was better fitted than they, to prepare these boys for their first Communion.

A few days later a group of icy looking priests and monsignori arrived. Don Bosco had not confided to his boys that now the clergy were persecuting him. He merely gave the order for them to line up in groups, a census was being taken. Most of that Sunday was taken in interviews. Naturally Don Bosco had been right. There was not one of the hundreds interviewed who belonged to the Turin parish. They were mostly out-of-town apprentices. Finally the clergy exhausted from the ordeal called a halt. They were just as generous in their praise, as they had been in their criticism.

In order to reward the boys for their Sunday of inactivity, permission was given for the favorite war game. They took up their wooden guns and swords. The opposing factions started in dead earnest to attack. One of the generals led his victorious army to swift victory. The invaders stormed the fortress, tore even across a hedge that separated Mamma Margherita's famous vegetable garden. They stood at the kitchen door shouting triumphantly waving their banner.

Not quite so happy was Mamma Margherita who on scurrying out to learn the cause of all the noise almost fainted. She threw up her hands in horror. Three hundred pair of feet had trampled her garden, not a blade of grass remained! Gone was the cabbage, the broccoli, the brussel sprouts. They had been used as ammunition! The precious herbs had been flattened in the field of battle.

Wiping her eyes with a corner of her blue apron, Mamma Margherita made a bee-line towards her son: "John this has to stop. It is the end. I cannot take another day. Oh! these boys! These terrible boys! One day they pull my wash because they need a rope, then trample all my clean wash in the mud. Next, it is their clothing... Look at them. No wonder they are always in rags. Who does the mending? Why you and I. It is we who sit up most of the night sewing, patching, darning. Look at that stack of shoes! In their eagerness to run faster, they take them off. You used to do it too only they never remember to pick them up. I have to match the pairs. I have to find the owners. John, it is now the end. It is asking too much of me."

Don Bosco looked at his mother: "Mamma, forgive them. Boys will be boys! They really had had a strenuous day, cooped up for hours, waiting in line, being questioned. You know how they love you and besides they are so loyal. Their exuberance has gotten the upper hand. We will give you an even better garden next summer. Wait and see."

To climax the incident a group of boys had raided the kitchen. They needed noise-makers for the orchestra. Her best pots were missing! Some of her helpers were unusually rowdy. The breaking point had been reached. Mamma Margherita now stood waiting for her John to come into the kitchen. "My son, it's too hard, much too difficult. I no longer have the patience. I must go back to the peaceful mode of living in Becchi."She was weeping as if her poor heart would break. "You will have to get some husky man, who can handle these boys. They steal, they are dishonest, I no longer have the patience." Mamma Margherita had by now removed her apron, she was hanging it on the wall. "I have done all I can! I have tried!" She was just about to leave the-kitchen.

Don Bosco nodded: "Mamma, you are quite right, you are perfectly right. I cannot forbid you, I cannot stop you from going, nor can I find an excuse for the conduct of our boys." He repeated what he had said, so slowly, but his eyes, his lovely brown eyes were so very sad. "I fully understand, but Mamma, look, look there!" He was pointing to a crucifix hanging on the kitchen wall.

During that moment of tense silence there was a hurried knock. The kitchen door flew open. A small group of culprits marched in, shame-faced, clutching a wilted bunch of flowers. They were far from attractive, in rags, dirty, a filthy bandage over the eye of one urchin, another with twisted lips had narrow slits for eyes, the third with missing teeth stood first on one foot, then on another.

Mamma Margherita took her apron from the hook. She tied it carefully, meticulously around her waist. "Thank you, thank you boys. Now put those flowers in the water right under that crucifix, Camillo. And you, Filippo, you help me bandage this eye." Then on seeing the smallest scurry out of her kitchen, she called: "Giuseppe, you're in time for me to delouse that head of hair. Come my boy, no need to weep. It will grow back fast enough. You'll let Don Bosco cut it? Won't you do it just to please your Mamma Margherita?"

Chapter 15.

Boarders

That miracle of the hosts replenished in the ciborium was repeated on several occasions. Not so much because of forgetfulness, but because of the influx of tremendous crowds who came unexpected. On November 2nd Don Bosco had gone with his boys to the Campo Santo. It was a good Italian custom to decorate the grave of the dead on All Souls day with flowers, to pray, to linger and think of the departed. Since most of his poor boys were orphans, he wished to instill in them a desire to pray for their parents, their dear departed ones. The walk from the Oratory to the Campo Santo had been long and cold. Before the boys were sent home to their respective quarters, Don Bosco had promised them a treat.

There was nothing boys loved better than roasted chestnuts. Now he and his mother had gone to the market very specially to prepare for this event. He had bought three huge sacks, there would be plenty for everyone. He looked about, tried to count heads. Yes, they would all have a fine portion that night.

On hearing them, Mamma Margherita came to see the cause of the commotion. The small number of students who were expected for classes that night had multiplied and tripled. They had heard about the chestnuts. Mamma Margherita shook her head, took her son aside, whispered the bad news. She had not expected such a crowd. There were at least three hundred. Only half a sack had been roasted. It would be too late to prepare another batch. The fire had gone out; there were no embers left. Nothing was said. A half a sack of hot, roasted chestnuts was given to Don Bosco, who began to fill cap after cap. Each time he dug deeper and deeper. Once in a while, as he rolled up his sleeves and dug deeper, he remarked: "The best ones are at the bottom." No matter how many were removed from the gunny sack, the nuts never diminished. When the last boy had received his share, there were still enough for Don Bosco and Mamma Margherita.

Shouts of joy greeted the final distribution. The lads decreed their leader as a saint, a real saint. When finally he could bring order out of this chaos, he said, "It is not me, it is the Madonna. She performed this miracle; let us thank her."

Even after, on All Souls day at the Oratory and later on in all the other Salesian homes, chestnuts were distributed to commemorate this miracle of multiplication.

One day at sunset, Don Bosco was writing a book, he was trying to finish it, when his mother, usually so quiet, so dignified, came rushing into his room. Immediately, he remembered how on the day before, she had brought him a long list of unpaid bills. He had promised, that he would bring back the money. Now as he looked up he thought of the butcher, the baker, the cobbler and a dozen other creditors. He hated to see her so upset, it worried him, because he had not been able to keep his word.

"John! John!" The poor woman was wringing her hands. "Something frightful has happened! What will we do?"

"Mamma, for goodness sakes, what has happened? Has one of the boys been hurt?" He rose to his feet.

"Oh! no, John. . . no. . . only much worse. If the children are hurt, I can at least bandage them. Your cassock has been stolen. I had it out to air on the line." Don Bosco put his arm around his mother:

"Well, I guess if it is stolen there is little that we can do about it. You really must not get so upset. It is bad for your health. You are over-worked and over-tired."'

Mamma Margherita was not paying any attention to what her son was saying. She was looking at him. He was wearing an old, dilapidated hand-me-down of a dressing gown, just to give her time to mend and air his old soutane. "I am to blame. I should have known better than leave it out in such a neighborhood."

"Mamma, I should have kept it on, then this would not have happened." He realized that he had no other soutane.

Mamma Margherita insisted: "Let us not waste time. John you've got to find the thief. Call the boys, perhaps they have seen the culprit."

Laughing, Don Bosco insisted he could not be expected to become a policeman. She scolded: "John you'll never change, nothing ever disturbs you. But how are you going to keep your appointment this evening with the Marquis de Cavour. You can't face the mayor in this get up. Your dressing gown has every color of the rainbow."

"That's quickly solved. The city authorities gave us a stack of army coats for the boys. I can go out in one of those coats." "A fine sight you will make. Surely they will place you under arrest. They have been waiting for some legitimate excuse to throw you behind bars or into the insane asylum. Please John do nothing so foolish."

Her priest-son burst into laughter: "Mamma,. probably the thief was in great need. He must have been even poorer than we are."

Fortunately Don Cafasso had come to pick up Don Bosco in a carriage. Seeing his plight he took the priest in his dressing gown to his residence. That night Don Bosco came home triumphant, he had another cassock. It was even in worse shape than had been his own. The Marquis de Cavour had promised that the city would help finance some of his new projects. There would at long last be sufficient money to pay some of the bills.

Little by little, the entire set-up at the Oratory was -changed. There were far too many boys without homes. There were dangers both physical and moral. Don Bosco thought of his own home in Becchi, his days of sorrow and trial. Yet God had gifted him with a good brain. These lads were often unfit for the most menial jobs. There was a definite place for them, but they would have to be trained. If they only had a home. A home where they would be sheltered from temptation during the most crucial period of their lives! If these boys could be trained under his roof, with his theories he was sure they would become respectable, useful tradesmen, an asset to society.

One rainy night of May 1849, a knock at the kitchen had brought a fifteen-year-old lad to their door. He asked for food and shelter. Soaked to the skin., Mamma Margherita had placed him near the stove to dry. He apparently was famished. While finishing his meal, she asked him if he went to school. He was an orphan who had come to Turin looking for work as a mason. He had started out from his native village with three lire. Only they had by now been spent. He was unable to find work, he was destitute. No, he had no one to care for him, he burst into tears, pleading to spend the night where there was protection. He had been greatly frightened by what he had seen on the city streets.

Mamma Margherita could not hold back her tears. Don Bosco also felt for the lad, whom he knew was telling the truth.

Don Bosco remarked: "If we were at least certain that you would not walk off with our bedding, that you are not a thief, we would gladly put you up for the night. We have tried several times to help others, but they have repaid our kindness by stealing our blankets and sheets. You may even carry off the little we have left."

Mamma Margherita interrupted: "John if you consent, I will gladly make room for him tonight. Tomorrow, the good Lord will provide. I can put him up in the warm kitchen."

"What if he steals your precious pots?"

She merely smiled: "Oh leave that to me. I'll watch." Mother and son helped by the boy soon had his bed made.

Mamma Margherita had talked to the lad about the real necessity of working hard, of the obligation every human being had of serving God to the best of his ability. She had started at that moment a custom that Don Bosco was going to continue in all his schools. He called it his mother's good night. A last thought before they went to sleep, something to bear in mind the next day. Then tucking up the lad, Mamma Margherita told him to be sure and not forget to say his prayers. He timidly admitted that he had never learned how to pray.

"Then it can be easily remedied, you can learn right now. My son and I will say our prayers out loud and you can listen."

The last thing Mamma Margherita did once the boy was sound asleep, and she had finished her mending, was to remove the key from the kitchen door. This time she would be cautious. Then she tip-toed to her room. This was her first boarder.

The second boarder was not long in coming. The very next day her son turned up with another boy. In walking along one of the main thoroughfares he had seen a lad weeping. The boy was leaning against an acacia tree that formed the magnificent boulevard, sobbing as if his heart would break. Don Bosco had asked what happened? The child was fatherless, his mother had died the morning before. The cruel landlord had thrown him out and seized all that was left of his earthly goods in payment for back rent.

On bringing home the boy, he had said: "Mamma Margherita I have a son for you, take good care of him for me."

This was how the boarders accumulated, their numbers grew soon to 30, then 50, then 100, then 15C- during the life of Mamma Margherita. During the early beginnings the priest worked side by side with his mother. He carried out the most menial of occupations. He cooked, he stirred the polenta, he set the table, he waited on his boys, ladling out huge bowls of hot soup. Personally he enjoyed having this homely feeling of being so close to these children.

With the idea in mind of having trained helpers, he began teaching some of the more capable boys. Some of them had leanings toward sacerdotal vocations. With this in view, he felt it essential to study and grow more acquainted with the type of lad who one day might carry on with his work. With Mamma Margherita at the helm he could easily get away. There was nothing like an outing in the country to study human nature. A child's character showed up in unforeseen moments, when the unexpected took place. They would, some thirty in all, join Don Bosco for the open road, heading to Becchi. He passed through the fields he loved so dearly. Midst the beauty of the trees, the song of the birds, the loveliness of mountain landscape he spoke to them about God. Once Becchi was reached then his brother Joseph gladly cared for the group. There was much fun, much laughter under those old rafters. It was there that Don Bosco picked and did his choosing, it was from among this group that he formed the men who in time would take his place.

Mamma Margherita felt the hardships of daily living. The grind at making ends meet. She was slow in getting used to some of the characters. There was much pilfering until her little community had been trained to honesty. To her, these things convulsed her with disgust. Herself the essence of honesty, she shrank from sin and crime. Then there was the question of always being in debt, always owing money, never having enough to meet the daily requirements! For a woman who had been as practical as she had been, who had always paid her bills, who had shunned to even borrow, this living from hand to mouth was frightening. Yet, one thing Mamma Margherita was not, she never meddled in other's affairs. With John, unexpected miracles of finance were now almost daily affairs. She prayed for patience, the patience God had given to her son. She played for courage to face the great uncertainty that came into each new day. She prayed for faith, great faith which would make her believe that an all-powerful, providential God was watching over them! After much time in unrest, she decided it would be really best for her to leave the real worry about money to John. She would carry the burden of housework, the humdrum duties that kept her busy for twenty-four hours a day.

The love of her great mother-heart went out to the children. Don Bosco had been correct when he had expected that the orphans would have an irresistible appeal. Never any need to tell her that if she did not cook, there would be no meal for that day. She was punctual. No matter how much in arrears they happened to be with the butcher, the baker, the grocer, she always managed to find someone who would provide the stack of potatoes, the tons of corn meal, the mountains of macaroni. Soon she had her own home- grown cabbage and carrots. Tired as she might be after being on her feet since dawn, she would sit by candle light watching the steaming pot boiling on her wood stove. Her fingers never idle had sorted a mountain of clothing that she had washed that morning, then far into the night she would mend. On one occasion Don Bosco was writing a leaflet in his office. He heard a frightful crash, jumping to his feet he realized a calamity of great magnitude had taken place. Looking at his mother who stood calmly watching the broken pieces being picked up she merely smiled: "Oh John, don't mind, that youngster has quick- silver in his veins, we are fortunate it was not worse." Seeing one of the school terrors, she clutched his arm: "Come here my little one, your shirt is torn again. Why, do you think I have nothing else to do, but just keep mending it for you?" To another boy, who had been very naughty and should have been admonished, she said: "Why don't you go with Don Bosco and help him a little, he works too hard, the poor man."

On one occasion when Don Bosco brought home a pair of twins, she merely smiled: "Now I don't mind anymore. At first it made me panicky, I wondered how we could feed them, care for them. Now bring as many boys as you like my dear John, there will never be too many for me. Just as long as you can do good to them, I can also do my share."

The routine was well organized. Each boy had his work to do on the outside as apprentice in some trade. Daily after he had said his mass, he helped with the doling out of bread. By noon they returned with huge appetites. Mamma Margherita had her minestra in readiness, or a thick polenta Which filled them up. Water, contrary to the Italian rule of having wine, was the only drink. Wine was a luxury they could not afford. Then to each boy five centesimi, the equivalent of one penny was given so as to buy some extra food during the afternoon, that five centesimi of cash really did but more than one suspected.

The refectory was picturesque with boys sitting on the steps, on the floor, in every corner as well as filling every table. Once the meal was finished, each rose washing his plate in a community bowl placed in the center of the room, the spoon and knife considered essential were carried for the rest of the day in each one's pocket. These were personal treasures too valuable to be left with the common goods.

Siesta time was spent by Mamma Margherita in prayer, in tidying the building, in preparing for night class. Those who needed a button sewed on, a stitch to keep a sleeve from falling off a coat came to Mamma Margherita. How they loved this elderly woman. She had won their confidence, she had become truly their mother. Her goodness was without limit. Later when the older of more gifted boys had special classes, she never counted her own weariness. She waited evening after evening till eleven - sometimes even midnight wishing to personally supervise the ones who were late at class, or had night shifts, or studied overtime. When they got home, they always found her greeting them with a smile, interested in what they did. She had hot soup waiting.

The little ones were always hungry, they found her generosity touching. A lad would snuggle up to her, she would hear him whisper a request for more bread. She would remind him that he had already eaten his share. Childlike he would retort that it had really not been enough. Then she would give him an extra piece, on condition that he told no one she had let him have it. If he did, there would be no more bread for anyone.

There was another category of Latin students who went into town for evening classes. Though they would have had their supper, they always came home famished. She would give them hunks of bread. Instead of going to bed they hung around looking very dejected. Mamma Margherita knew it meant an extra snack, they felt the bread alone was a bit too dry, perhaps a bit of cheese, or salami, or an apple?

Mamma Margherita always prayed. Her lips never stopped. Daily she was up the first for early Mass. Afternoons she never failed to make a visit to the Blessed Sacrament. In between pious practices she recited prayers of ejaculations. Half aloud, or when alone murmuring them over and over. She had a strange way of intermingling her prayers with her work. "Come, Mario, bring me wood, the fire is too low... and forgive us our trespasses... hurry Thomas, please, do get those potatoes peeled. . . as we forgive those who trespass against us. . . Peter, why don't you sweep before scrubbing. . . and deliver us from evil. Amen."

Mamma Margherita was as much of a leader as was her son. She knew how to handle people. Her administrative abilities helped her many a time when tact was required. No visit gave her greater joy than that of her son Joseph. He liked to drop in frequently. He used the excuse of coming to market to stay for a day or two under his brother's hospitable roof. He sent a cart filled with produce from the farm every month. On one occasion he happened to run into his brother down town. He learned that Don Bosco was trying to raise a certain sum of money by noon so as to meet his obligations. Don Bosco heard his offer for help, but refused. After all, Joseph was doing more than his share in helping feed his hungry orphans.

Later Don Bosco found Joseph chatting with Mamma Margherita. He still looked worried. Joseph asked if he had secured the money. Don Bosco had all but 300 lire. Joseph pulled out of his pocket the needed money. He had sold two calves that morning. He insisted that his brother keep the money. Don Bosco accepted on condition that it was a loan. Joseph merely shook his head: "No, there is no use in it being a loan, take it as a gift. I know you well enough. Until you die, you will always be needing more and more."

Sometimes a bishop, even an archbishop, dropped in to see her son. When he was not home, they would sit and wait at the kitchen stove, chatting with Mamma Margherita. On one occasion a bishop addicted to taking snuff offered her some. She turned it down, commenting as she did so, that it was far too expensive a habit for her to acquire. The bishop was so struck by her simplicity, so amused at her reply, that when he left he made her a present of the silver box with all the snuff. Of course he never knew that the box of snuff was sold to buy one of her boys a much needed pair of shoes.

No one came, no one went without first stopping to say a word to the famous woman who arranged everything and ran the household. She was even there on one occasion when two men came in hoping to take her son's life. She had been suspicious from the outset. Once closeted in her son's room, she heard the loud voices, she heard Don Bosco protest. Greatly worried, she called two of the older boys. They walked into the room and scared away the scoundrels just in the nick of time.

On another occasion she was standing at the kitchen door getting a breath of air, she liked to slip out and look at the sky. She happened to hear a shriek. She heard angry voices, saw a man with a knife running after her son, as the boys fell aside in horror, wondering what had happened.

Don Bosco quick as a flash, seeing his mother at the door, made a jump over her hedge, raced up the steps, and together they banged it shut. This quick action on the part of both saved his life.

The boys managed to tie down the murderer. He was taken to the police who apparently let him go because of insufficient evidence. The next day there was a repetition of the same act. Only this time the boys -were alerted and ready. The police took three hours before they came to get the man and again released him. Don Cafasso was furious, so was everyone else. Don Bosco could have been killed, as this apparently was the purpose of the attacks. Due inquiry was made. Someone had paid the killer a handsome sum for doing away with Don Bosco. He said that since he lived a great distance from Valdocco, if Don Cafasso would pay him as much as had the schemers of this plot, he would keep away. It was done, after a few very anxious days, he never turned up again.

For himself Don Bosco never asked for anything. His wants were frugal. He begged his mother to set aside a pot of soup so that when he came home, all he had to do was warm it up.

The greater part of his life was spent inside the confessional. His routine was one of hourly mortification and penance. From dawn till far into the night, during all kinds of weather with freezing temperature, or suffocating heat of summer, he carried on. No matter how bad the breath, Don Bosco never complained. He was never known to turn a soul away. Nights, when there was much work to be done in the solitude of his room, he would listen to the request of one or several boys to hear their confession. He even waited in the confessional, where sometimes to his own amazement he fell so sound asleep, that he remembered nothing. Several of his future seminarians told of how Don Bosco had nodded, then fallen asleep on the shoulder or arm of one of his boys. When the saint came to, he was ashamed of himself, full of apology, when asked why the lad had not roused him, he had merely replied: "It's my privilege, not every day do I have a saint use my arm as his pillow."

The year of 1849 brought a certain amount of sadness. News came that Anthony was dying. Mamma Margherita could not be replaced. Don Bosco forgetful of everything else rushed to Becchi hoping to be on time. He was just there as Anthony recognizing him breathed his last on January the 18th. It was Don Bosco who arranged the funeral ceremony, attended to everything, even said the Requiem Mass. The wife and her children were practically strangers to Don Bosco yet he stayed to help her straighten out her husband's affairs. Once back, neither he nor his mother had any hard feelings. They prayed for his soul, but rarely spoke of him. The training Mamma Margherita had given this hardhearted son had been useful. He married, lived a decent life, given no one further cause for scandal. Both mother and son were thankful that ) when the last call had come, Anthony could go with peace of mind and clear conscience to face his Maker. It was this great mother's love, her heart of gold that had worked the miracle. That he had remained a good man, a good father, and a good farmer, Anthony owed in a great measure to his wonderful mother.

Chapter 16.

Attacked

From the years of 1852 to that of her death in 1856 Mamma Ma rgherita was most uneasy. She worried much about her son. His life was being threatened, he was constantly in great danger. She spent long hours on her knees in prayer, interceding that he be spared, from sudden evil and sudden, unexpected death. The form of work he did was so varied that she never knew where he would be next. It might be to the palace talking or pleading with the King of Savoy, or next to deposit under oath a guarantee that he was not carrying on a political meeting. The police and the mayor should have known better by then but with some it was merely routine caused more to annoy than harm. Little by little he won them all over.

Next he might hear the confessions of a dying woman in a dark attic, or binding up the wounds of one struck down in a brawl on his way home through the Valdocco plains. Then once back home, when not balancing accounts he was busily writing books. These caused much consternation. Apparently he wielded a powerful pen, a pen that his enemy was afraid might do even more harm than did his youth projects. At all costs, everything that could be done, was done to silence both the writer and his works. Don Bosco had become a writer and journalist by force. He had written text books because there were no suitable ones for his boys. He began to publish powerful tracts and leaflets to defend the teachings of the Catholic Church against the attacks and blasphemies of the Waldensians and other anti-clerical groups. A reign of terror was in full force. Attempts were made to scare into submission the poor ignorant people of Piedmont. Don Bosco not being one to shirk physical encounters sent out a counter-leaflet for each pamphlet of attack.

Mamma Margherita pleaded with her son to be careful. She really feared the enemy. She felt they were dreadfully earnest. He was their greatest enemy. They were out to trap and kill him. In Don Bosco they had discovered a power of defiance and of resistance which eventually would destroy their dark plot. Strangely enough one of their deadliest headquarters was situated in the most squalid slums of Valdocco. The tavern of the Bella Giardiniera was almost opposite to the Oratory. The doors of the (Beautiful Gardner ) Bella Giardiniera was a center of espionage, opened to the undesirables from all northern Italy. The Waldensians and their propaganda of anarchy and irreligion were at war with the founder of the Oratory. He wanted to bring life and hope and education to the masses, they wished to strike terror and mobilize the illiterate for their evil purposes. No effort was spared to snare him, his life at all costs... only none of the Waldensians wished to be incriminated with the attempt.

Once Don Bosco's pamphlets appeared in print they were sensational. His brilliant mind came to the front. His years of study with opportunity to utilize what he had learned, now amazed even scholars. Until then he had been classified as the simple country priest who had appeal for the youth of the masses.

Now the attacks were virulent and open. He was forced to use a body guard of his toughest boys. They followed him on his nightly rounds of mercy. One afternoon giving a course in religion in the Oratory chapel a bullet whizzed through the open window. Fortunately at that moment, Don Bosco had lifted his arm or it would have been pierced. He reassured his frightened class that all was well, then bemoaned the fact Mamma Margherita would complain about the hole in his cassock.

These attacks were so cold blooded that they would have unnerved the staunchest. One night late in November of 1852 he was quite a distance from home. Unfortunately he had been in such a hurry to attend a sick call, that he had forgotten to bring along his usual bodyguard. It was half snowing, half raining. He was trampling home through slippery slush, when he saw an enormous dog follow him. His fears increased. This animal seemed wolf-like, its pointed muzzle, straight pointed ears, huge body struck terror. The faster he walked, the quicker ran the dog, soon he was right at his heels. Don Bosco heard voices, he heard the dog growl. He felt that this time his hours were numbered. Quicker, quicker, quicker he ran, till out of breath he saw the lights of the Pinardi House, then stumbling, he flung open the kitchen door.

Mamma Margherita had come hurrying to see what had happened. She never went to bed till she knew her Don Bosco was safe at home. She looked at the dog and cried in amazement: "What a horrible dog, he's frightening, what is he doing here?" By then Don Bosco was wondering the same thing. He was still busily shaking off the flakes of snow, when some of the boys tried to push the dog out of the kitchen.

"Look Grigio is wagging his tail, he seems quite at home." Before he knew it the children were on their knees petting the shaggy, grey-furred beast. He was a dog, looked more like a wolf, with the features of a wolf. Within a very short while Grigio was an established member of the household. He followed his self- appointed master by day and night. Strangely enough no one ever saw Grigio eat. When Don Bosco was escorted by his guard of boys Grigio lay by the kitchen stove waiting for his return.

Late one evening walking through the sparsely settled slum area Don Bosco was going to hear the confessions of several sick people. From behind a boulevard of shade trees two shots were fired. Grigio growled, lunged, and chased two bandits.

Another day coming down an alley, two men played hide-and- seek in a dark narrow passage. Don Bosco was trapped, when from a vantage point a -third accomplice threw a sack over his head leaving him helpless. He was knocked on the head, being helpless would have been killed. Grigio snarling and growling caught the attacker by the throat, the other men fled into the night. Grigio held his position, till the terrified victim shouted for mercy, for the dog to be called off.

Mamma Margherita now saw in Grigio God's protecting hand. With the silent family friend taking full protection of her son, her worries ended. Several times a roomful of children, as well as Mamma Margherita, saw Grigio in action. The grey dog saw his master take his hat and head for the door. Grigio merely growled. The growls meant nothing to Don Bosco, he opened the door. Grigio snarled, growled, then pushing his master aside, lay across the threshold. Only then did Mamma Margherita interfere.

"John the dog wants you to stay at home. It is evident from his actions. You cannot go out. If you will not obey the dog, you will at least obey your old mother." She took his hat and John went back to his office.

Grigio wagged his tail, settled down again by the kitchen stove as if he wanted to continue his interrupted sleep. Later, not much later, a breathless friend came to tell that he had been delayed, the police had caught four men right outside the house with full intent to kill.

There were times when John could not be quite so prudent, he was obliged to take risks. During a class in Christian doctrine, two strange looking scoundrels barged into the room, interrupted the lessons, and demanded help. A companion was dying in the Inn of the Golden Heart. Being but a stone's throw there was no need for any of the boys to accompany him. They would lead him to their friend.

Don Bosco arose, he had made a promise to his mother that if Grigio was not there, he would take his cordon of boys.

"Leave your boys here," shouted the ruffians rudely. "We do not need your noisy youngsters. They'll upset the patient."

"My boys will enjoy the walk. They will wait for me at the foot of the staircase."

Fortunately for Don Bosco that he took along his boys. They waited as he bad suggested. On reaching the second floor there was a sort of hidden barroom, where a group of most objectionable men were congregated, drinking and cursing. On seeing a priest, there was silence. Some insisted he join them, he excused himself, since he had come to see a dying man. Some insisted, as they poked into his face a dish of roasted chestnuts that they had been eating. He had time to sit and join them. Again he refused. He did not eat between meals. Another group stood up with a bottle of Asti and poured a glass. Again Don Bosco refused. The men shouted that he was insulting them. Their spirit of hospitality had been hurt. He could not get away, either he drink or take the consequences. One of the stronger ruffians had his arm around his neck and shoulder. They were about to force the glass to his lips, when he had the presence of mind to say: "Why all this commotion, leave me in peace. If you insist, why of course I will take the wine."

The glass was placed in his hand. Everyone waited. Don Bosco realizing by then that the drink was poisoned, threw open the door leading down the stairs: "My boys will love to take a drink. Boys are always thirsty, why they will finish that bottle in no time." John called to his boys. But the ruffians shouted. "Stay where vou are. Don't come up. We don't want you."

Don Bosco was led to a bedroom, lying on top of the bed fully dressed was not a dying person, but the same man who had come to fetch him. There was a burst of impious laughter. Don Bosco made one bound, he threw open the door leaped down the stairs out into the open, and fled with the help of his boys.

Rarely a week passed without some strange adventure. Again Don Bosco was giving class, a timid lad came to say his help was needed. When the class rose to follow Don Bosco, the boy said his father was outside waiting, no need of anyone else.

A look from Don Bosco was all sufficient, two of his most reliable fighters joined the group. Some of the boys stayed on the street; others climbed the rickety stairs. Buzzetti and Arnaud followed to the first floor, near to the door of the sick woman.

Once inside Don Bosco saw there really was a woman about to 'expire. Don Bosco requested that the roomful of people leave him alone with the dying. A quarrel started among the occupants of that room. There were shouts, some screamed murder, the only light went out. Then in an instant Don Bosco knew it was another plot.

Five men pounced on him in the dark. He seized a chair that he had noticed, used it as a wedge to protect his head. Thugs were taking clubs and beating at him. He managed to flee, because his two guards opened the door and saved him. The others protected his retreat. He suffered from a crushed thumb. This wound he was to carry all his life. But as Mamma Margherita said, God was with him. He could so easily have been overcome.

Don Bosco came in rather late. As usual Mamma Margherita had waited to warn up his supper. Only to her amazement he had walked in with several guests, priests he had. met. They had offered to bring him back in their carriage before returning to their own monastery. He had begged them to have a bite of supper. Now as they sat in the kitchen talking, Grigio burst into the room. One of the boys had let him in. Frightened the priests wondered what had happened. Once again the dog whined, sniffed, head on the ground acted as if looking for something or someone.

"Oh you have nothing to fear," said Mamma Margherita, "He may look fearful, but he's as mild as a lamb. He is my son's watch dog."

Don Bosco snapped his finger, called the dog.

On seeing him the animal went wild with joy. He bounded through the room, wagging his tail, licking his master's hands, and even face.

Don Bosco wished to feed him. Then as in the past. Grigio paid no attention to the food. He merely whined, wagging his tail all the more, kept his longish snout at the edge of the table as if wishing to say something. Only when the children ran in to bid Mamma Margherita good night, did he follow the boys who loved nothing better than to caress him and pull his long tail or pointed ears.

Only when Grigio had left the kitchen did it dawn upon Don Bosco why the dog had at first seemed so upset. They had been walking through the slums. He had stopped to talk to Don Cafasso when these priests with a carriage, on seeing him, had offered to drive him home. Grigio had run home the long way to ascertain that his master was safe.

To Don Bosco, to Mamma Margherita, and to the thousand of children who passed in and out of the Oratory, grey, long-haired Crigio was not imaginary; he was very real. They had complete faith in his strength and powers of protection.

In 1850 Don Bosco went to Rome for his first trip to the Eternal City. Pope Piux IX had heard much about Don Bosco. He took a tremendous liking to the holy priest from Turin. Don Bosco had gone to ask about establishing his congregation on a solid basis that would meet the approval of the Holy See. Before the visit was terminated, the Pope told Don Bosco he wished to give him an honor to show his esteem and appreciation. Poor Don Bosco was horrified. What would he do with a title? He loved the Pope, would serve him just as faithfully without the title of Domestic Prelate or Monsignor.

When the Pope insisted, Don Bosco politely explained he had never sought after earthly glory. The sacred purple was hardly fitting in the Valdocco environment. People would not understand. The rich would think he had an endowment. They would no longer give money to his work of charity. His boys would starve. Besides, he felt quite sure that his boys would rather have him just plain Don Bosco, not Monsignor.

Don Bosco had been known as the dreamer. Though he never had spoken to outsiders of his dreams, his family knew how he had seen the future, how Our Lady had shown him his work. How step by step each detail unfolded in dreams, had materialized. Now again he was dreaming. No sooner had the Pinardi Shed been adapted for use by his boys, and the Pinardi House taken over, than he felt it was high time they had a really decent church, not a hovel as a place of worship.

On June 21, 1851 the corner stone was laid for the Church of St. Francis of Sales. Within a year it would be built. The blueprints were approved. The money dribbled in somehow. Mamma Margherita always frugal in money matters protested. She objected that the venture would be far too costly for their modest means. She objected that there was not enough money to take care of a house filled with boys. Would it not be wiser for her son, to talk the matter over with God before venturing into such debts? Don Bosco assured her that he had both prayed and thought over the matter very seriously. The blueprints were ready, did she not know that the Lord had plenty of money for everything in this world. There would be no need of fearing that God would run out of money.

Thirty workers were put on the construction of the church. Unfortunately a certain number did a frightful amount of cursing and using profane language. Mamma Margherita whose kitchen windows looked over the new building was horrified. Don Bosco tried to stop the men. They told him it was not possible. They had acquired the habit; they could not break themselves from being so profane.

Mamma Margherita suggested to her son that he might bribe them. Besides it was hardly right to build a church dedicated to God and have such horrible men act that way. What about bringing them a keg of wine in regard for their efforts, if every Saturday there was proof that neither she had heard a curse nor had they used one?

The wager worked. During the next twelve months on Saturdays the workmen at St. Francis of Sales Church were rewarded with a keg of fine Asti wine. When the men asked Mamma Margherita for the name of her wonderful wine, she merely smiled, "It is the wine of the Holy Name of God."

No one could have been happier than Don Bosco and his mother at the loveliness of the new church: When it was dedicated it became the center of their lives. Many great graces took place within its walls, even many miracles. No one loved it better than Mamma Margherita who had her special prie-dieu in a corner at the far back of the church. It was also there that she prayed in unison with her son for the salvation of the children confided to their care, and above all that they be spared the cruel scourge of the cholera epidemic. Strange rumors were coming to Turin. Cholera, so they were told had ravaged Genoa.

People living in Genoa, a great harbor town, now fled to Turin because it was a mountain town in the plains. Cholera had been brought by Asiatic ships, and the Genoa epidemic was terrifying.

Suddenly, overnight, Turin was engulfed with fear. The plague had started in their midst. Cholera had taken victims in the heart of Turin. Cholera was no respecter of persons. The city doctors ordered a quarantine forbidding the sick to move, but the relatives and friends of the afflicted paid no attention, they fled in mortal terror, since the death rate was fifty percent. It was known that within two hours, at the most two days, the victim would be dead. The sufferings were so dreadful that the dying screamed in pain. The anguished cries could be heard for blocks away.

The rat and vermin infested area of Valdocco did not escape. Sanitation there was at its lowest ebb. Don Bosco's boys were seized with terror. Everywhere they went they found only death. The would-be masons, cobblers, bakers, and chimney-sweeps, all trooped back to Don Bosco since the entire metropolitan area was ravaged by the plague. They were mortally afraid, poor boys. Who would care for them? Who would bury them?

Don Bosco assembled his children of the Oratory. He gave his orders simply but explicitly. He wanted no panic. Since God was the ruler of their lives, they were in the palm of the Almighty's hand. He even guaranteed that all who remained in the State of Grace, all who fled from sin would be spared. He distributed medals of Our Lady; he asked that all pray many Aves and Pater Nosters, that they repeat the words, "St. Aloysius deliver us from all evil."

Then he called on Mamma Margherita. Her assistance was required. They would scrub down the entire building. Daily the kitchen would be inspected for sanitary precaution. The boys were forbidden to touch food outside the Oratory. Everything had to be boiled, the fruit, the drinking water. The work was tremendous, but it was well worth the effort. Then squads of volunteers were formed, whose duty was to lighten the tremendous burden that fell upon the shoulders of Don Bosco and his mother.

Thousands died; daily hundreds passed away in their Valdocco slums. The conditions were unbelievable. So Don Bosco called for volunteers who would become his right arm, who could assist him, care for the sick, while he administered the Last Sacraments.

One hundred jumped to their feet. He chose 40 boys. These would need reinforcements. The 40 would visit the sick, be stretcher- bearers, go into the midst of infection. The rest would be divided into errand boys. Some sat night and day at the kitchen door to relay messages. Inside the house others helped with the first-aid kitchen. Night and day Mamma Margherita had steaming soup in readiness. There were the squads who chopped the wood, who prepared the vegetables, who did the washing. Nothing was overlooked, everything foreseen. That epidemic was to last five months. Inside the Oratory Mamma Margherita took over. Her son was only seen for daily Mass. The rest of the time he was out on the streets consoling the sick, annointing the dying.

Conditions in the Valdocco area were so horrible that the boys came weeping, pleading for immediate help. Their patients needed bedding, clothing. Mamma Margherita quickly cleared out her own meager wardrobe, then helped herself to what the boys had. She gave away sheets, blankets. Necessity now taught her to throw precaution to the winds. She finally realized the wisdom of her son's methods. She gave away her own shawl. Peasant folk kept a damask table-cloth as an heirloom to be used for state occasions, even that went to the boys.

The boulevards of that once gay city were forsaken. Gone were its colorful push-carts, its market-places deserted, even the familiar chestnut vender had fled. Turin, now a city of the dead and dying. Turin had become a city of muffled sounds with only the barking of neglected dogs.

Strangely enough these Don Bosco boys invaded even the homes of the rich. To them, in that hour of great need there was no class distinction. They comforted the bourgeoisie whose arrogance was greater than that of the vanquished nobility. They treated all with equal dignity and charity. The pest was no respecter of rich or poor, it struck with equal force the great and lowly. Don Bosco had ample opportunity doing good amongst the very ones who hated him.

Many of the citizens believed stupid rumors. They heard that city doctors were trying with contaminated water to get them quickly out of the way. They refused to believe that their real salvation lay in absorbing all the liquid they could take, otherwise their dehydrated bodies would collapse. Many of the patients in the slum areas lay with guns or pistols at their sides to protect themselves against the boys who approached them with cups of boiled water. The picture was not a nice one. By October, when the epidemic had lessened, thousands were dead, Valdocco alone had over 800.

Don Bosco wishing to reward his helpers, also feeling that they needed a rest, trooped with his 40 boys to Becchi. To these boys, Uncle Joseph was a famous personality. Under his roof they rested after four months of terrifying experiences. In talking about the past. in making plans for the future, their leader insisted, that those who wished to follow him would find, "much work, but little rest. Much sorrow but less joy. Great sacrifices but seldom consolations."

On the feast of the Holy Rosary, he said in the chapel of his brother at Becchi, a special Mass of thanksgiving. He had so much to thank Our Lady for. Not one of his children had been touched by the plague. They had all escaped.

The very next day, a Monday, he saw a boy approaching him with his father. It was Dominic Savio from Mondonio. The boy wanted to join his children at the Oratory. After very careful study Don Bosco accepted him. That same boy was to die in the odor of sanctity while a pupil in Turin.

Mamma Margherita took a tremendous liking to Dominic Savio. Hardly had her son returned, when Dominic turned up on the 22nd of October, announcing that he was there to stay. He was so helpful in the kitchen, everywhere, that she had commented to her son: "Thank God we now have some very good children, but none of them as exceptional or as good as Dominic."

Pope Pius VII had always had such ardent devotion to the Blessed Virgin. He had called on Christendom to commemorate the feast of Mary Help of Christians. Mamma Margherita had dedicated and consecrated John to Our Lady. Now in her old age, another Pope would call on all the Christian world to celebrate the definition of the dogma of the Immaculate Conception. No one could have been happier than Mamma Margherita. All of the Oratory joined in paying tribute to Our Lady, Many were the wonderful ceremonies, but deep in her heart, Mamma Margherita was now saying her fiat. The son she had dedicated to God and to His Immaculate Mother had served his earthly and his heavenly Mother beyond reproach. Her work was done, her own heart full of gratitude.

There had been so many incidents during the past years that it would have been difficult for Mamma Margherita to enumerate them. With him about, there was no such thing as monotony. He had barely finished building his church, when he decided the boys needed a dormitory. In time it would replace the old Pinardi house. Twice disaster struck the "L" shaped dwelling. Once part of the scaffolding fell from the third floor crashing to the ground. Mamma Margherita, who had been cooking in the kitchen, thought that the end of the world had come. Fortunately only the building but none of the children were hurt.

A few weeks later there was a bad mountain storm. One of those lightning and thunder storms for which Turin was noted. Dark clouds, thunder roared, lightning struck! The little boys rushed to Mamma Margherita pale and frightened. They reminded her of the days when her own sons came to her for consolation in Becchi. She consoled them. Told them that they should always praise God. This ought to remind them of what frightful punishments would be prepared for those who denied there was a God. "It is good God shows us His strength, but be not frightened. He is our Father, He does not want to hurt us. Let us pray that His will be done."

Flood waters rose and damaged the foundations of the new wing, only no one knew this at the time. Once the waters had subsided Don Bosco and the boys who had attended night courses went to see the extent of the damage.

The upper floors had been finished. Don Bosco had moved into the third floor dormitory with forty of the boys. The group was still in the old Pinardi House under the supervision of Mamma Margherita and her monitors. Don Bosco, who would forego all sleep to prepare a pamphlet, was busily writing on that third floor. It was past midnight. A horrible crash had him on his feet hauling boys out of the dormitory as fast as he could. He just got his children out, when part of the roof of the building he had been in crashed to the ground. Next morning when architect and contractor arrived there was consternation. The city sent inspectors to find out the cause of the accident. Don Bosco was told that he had better take his boys and thank his Madonna for having saved all of them. Only one column held up the room in which he and his boys had been that night. Had it given away they would all have been crushed by the falling roof. There was a solemn Te Deum in thanksgiving for the miraculous escape. Mamma Margherita on coming out of the chapel remarked dryly: "I guess, dear John, the devil must be busy, you are doing so much good for these poor souls."

Chapter 17.

Adieu

Mamma Margherita was poverty personified. Don Bosco could not get her to spend a cent on her own person. One day after a number of celebrities had left the building, Don Bosco looked at his mother, he was really shocked to see how frayed and poor she looked.

"Mamma, for heaven's sake get yourself another dress. You have worn this one for too many years!"

Looking in utter amazement at her dress: "Why John, don't you think it suits me?"

"Mamma, it is no longer fit to wear. What do these people think on seeing you. I take care of everyone else, but I neglect my own mother."

"How can I buy a dress dear John? I have not the money."

Very repentant, realizing how true her statement was, Don Bosco went to his desk and gave her a prized gold piece.

A few weeks later Don Bosco noticed that the dress was still the same. "Mamma, what about that new dress?"

She looked sheepish, then blushed: "John, you are right, I should get a new one, but how can I buy it? I have not a penny to my name."

"What about that money I gave you to be used just for your dress?" "What a question! Fancy you of all people asking me how I spent it. Well, let me think. I bought salt with it and then a jacket for Tony who wanted one so badly, then there was Dominic who had no books." Don Bosco merely laughed, he knew that no matter what he gave his dear mother, it would always, always be the same old story.

One day a silk shawl was given her as a present. She fingered it admiring its beauty. "Fancy me a poor peasant dressed in silk? I don't want people walking behind me and making fun of me, all they will do is laugh if I am all dressed up." She cut it up and made pretty ties for her boys.

Mamma Margherita when asked what she most wanted said: "I was born poor, I want to die poor." She refused to change her peasant clothes for city finery. She would say: "These rich ladies and gentlemen know that I am poor, they will pardon my mode of dressing." To her, cleanliness was a sister of poverty, and equal in virtue. Her clothes were immaculate, they were spotless. She never wore more than one dress, but cared for it with great pride. She mended it so carefully and so often, that in the end it had no specific color nor shape.

Towards the last few years of her life the children at the Oratory increased in number. Don Bosco wishing to cater to growing appetites had requested that a few extra dishes be added to the midday meal. Mamma Margherita kept to her very simple food. She liked her cold cornmeal mush. When it was suggested that she change her diet, she replied: "I have it far better than many of the poor. Here I lack nothing. Why the way I am treated, you'd think I was a noble lady."

During the last two winters of her life the weather was unbearably cold. The temperature dropped to way below freezing. Though the boys had moved into the new dormitories they suffered as did every one else. Every morning the water in their pitchers was frozen solidly. They had to break cakes of ice before washing.

Don Bosco felt sorry for his boys. All places of employment had been closed during the freeze. He decided that the children should have an extra hour of sleep. Then when it came time to dress, he personally made the rounds of the dormitory telling them what to wear. Since almost none had winter clothing, he suggested that they put on two pair of pants, two shirts, two pair of socks in an effort to keep warm.

The next day having himself felt the pangs of cold he sighed to his mother: "Misery among us is really growing worse. Bread is sky high, it is so dear that I wonder if we will ever be able to pay the baker's bill."

Mamma Margherita suggested that he start a novena to his Madonna. "Our Lady Help of Christians will surely provide the help you need."

The chapel was like an ice box. Mamma Margherita had provided a little charcoal brazier which she placed on the altar. During Mass he was obliged to use it to prevent his fingers from freezing to the chalice. It was then only that he told the boys that they were to wear blankets to Mass next morning. Don Bosco saw the boys and laughed. He said they reminded him of Indians

Mamma Margherita during that cold spell did her share of work to keep her young ones warm inside. She felt that in cold weather growing boys should eat twice as much, then they would not feel the cold.

Mamma Margherita even saw her work so organized that it no longer had to be done entirely by her. In fact it would have been impossible. In the year of 1855 there were 150 boarders. In the kitchen capable cooks now replaced her. These were the boys she had once trained. The washing was done by volunteers, women who came and offered their help supervised again by one of her former students. There were other ladies who did the mending, saw that the clothing was fit to wear.

Gradually she had found more and more free time to pray. Though she was as agile, as remarkable as ever, even at the age of tip-toeing through dormitories, collecting stockings that needed mending, Mamma Margherita was tired.

The winter of 1856 was again bad. Many of the boys had come down with the grippe. Mamma Margherita had brewed hot camomile tea which she had personally distributed to the sick. She had her own cough remedies that tasted better than the medicines the doctor gave. The children loved to have her hover over them. She was so kind, so full of fun, so observing of all their needs and wants.

Then one night Don Bosco noticed his mother had a bad cough, she looked so sick. He felt her hand; she was burning with fever. She had not said a word. He had enough troubles without her worrying him.

Frightened, Don Bosco immediately sent for the doctor. She had been glad to get to bed. Don Bosco had never remembered seeing her go to bed before, either to rest, or because of sickness. The doctor pronounced the dreadful word, pneumonia. Her rugged Piedmontese constitution fought the disease. Don Bosco hoped that his mother, who had nursed so many sick, would herself survive the attack.

The children of the household, who had always seen her in their midst, kneeling in chapel, living their daily lives felt her absence at once. To them she had been a mother, taking the place of a real mother. She was a real part of the Oratory. At all hours of the day, even in the night they had felt free to go to her. Now these same children tip-toed to her door to wait in hushed silence for news of Mamma Margherita.

They prayed with that tenacity that only children have, when they pray for someone who is all in all to them. They watched and saw the telltale tears, the eyes red from weeping. They realized with sinking hearts that even Don Bosco was fearful that his prayers would not be answered. So they stormed the portals of heaven all the harder.

More people came to see the patient. The children realized all was not well. Uncle Joseph had smiled at them but he looked sad, he too had tear-stained eyes. Then Mamma Margherita's sister and cousins who had been very close to her, they came, they went without so much as looking at any of the children.

Greater yet was their grief when they heard the tinkling of the bell announcing the last Sacraments were being taken to the room of their beloved Mamma Margherita. That was on the 24th of November and little work was done but whispering and praying. The church of St. Francis of Sales was ablaze with vigil lights. The candles burned at the altar of the Madonna. Children prayed who had never been seen outside of mass or Benediction. The church was filled with little worshippers, word had made the rounds that Mamma Margherita was dying.

When the incredulous scoffed, even denied it was so, the altar boys who had accompanied Don Borel, her confessor, told what they had witnessed. They corroborated the sad truth. Mamma Margherita was dying, her pneumonia was worse.

In the sick room Don Borel was about to administer Extreme Unction. Mamma Margherita looked at Don Bosco. He was kneeling by her bed. She smiled wearily having great difficulty in breathing: "My John, once upon a time, it was I, who stood at your side, who helped you receive the sacraments. Now it is your turn, it will be you who will help your old mother to receive the Last Sacraments. You will, dear John, say with, me, and for me, the prayers of the dying. I find it so hard to talk. Say them aloud, very loud, so that I can hear all of them. I will repeat them deep in my heart." She pressed with tender affection her son's hand.

Until that evening Don Bosco had felt there was hope. During her illness she had never lost that indomitable spirit that had sustained her through life. Still full of fun, she had asked her two sons night after night, if they had said their prayers. Then John and Joseph had knelt at either side of her bed to join her in evening prayers, the ones they had learned as little children at her knee in far off Becchi.

Once the Last Sacraments had been given Mamma Margherita rallied, as often was the case. She seemed stronger, filled as ever with consideration and realizing that the end was near. She looked at John and then at Joseph. "My John I am going away. I will be leaving many material worries in your hands. That period of change will be most difficult, but the Blessed Virgin will not fail to help you. Listen to my words of advice. In your enterprises never seek exterior glory nor fame. Let poverty be your foundation. Many love holy poverty in others, but not in themselves. Never forget, that the best teacher is he, who learns first the things he expects of his pupils. I confide myself to the prayers of all. As soon as I am admitted to the Seat of Divine Mercy, I will never cease to pray for you and your work."

"As to you, dear Joseph, keep your children in the state where God has placed them. They were born peasants, remember they must remain peasants unless they wish to become religious. Above all, let them never forget to earn their living with honesty. Let them not change their state of life, to do so would be to waste what you, by the sweat of your brow, have earned for them. Continue, dear Joseph, to help the Oratory. Do for it whatever you can. Our Lady will repay you for this generosity." Mamma Margherita lapsed into silence.

Don Bosco was saying aloud the prayers for the dying - slowly, very slowly. From time to time Don Borel changed off with him.

Mamma Margherita could not tear her thoughts away from her son John. "My dear John, only Our Lord knows how I have loved ou all through life, but I hope from up there I'll love you even more. I now leave you. There is a great peace in my heart. I have tried to do my best. Perhaps, at times, I may have seemed a bit too severe. If I was, I did it out of a sense of duty. Tell our dear children that I have worked for them, that I love them all with the devotion of a mother. Ask them all to have the charity to offer a fervent Communion for my soul."

Her breath had given away. She waited: "Goodby my John. Remember that this life is one of suffering. The real joys are those of eternity." The poor woman was exhausted. She fixed her eyes on John's face: "Dear boy go away. It hurts me so to see you so verysad. You will suffer even more if you stay here. Our whole lives have been filled with love, now go to your room and pray for me there."

Don Bosco hesitated. He simply could not carry out her wish. The dying woman lifted her eyes to heaven. She again looked at her son. Though she said nothing, it was as if her eyes told him: "You suffer, and in suffering so much, you make me suffer all the more." Their eyes met. John understood. Sobbing, he rose from his knees: "Go now. . . go... until we meet in eternity."

Her son did as she requested, he left her room. But after an hour of anguish, he could not endure being away from his beloved mother any longer. He returned. Very silently he tip-toed to the foot of her bed.

Mamma Margherita sensed he was back: "I know John you won't be able to stand it."

"Mamma, how can I abandon you at this crucial moment?" He struggled hard to control his emotions.

"John, just one last favor, that's all I ask of you. I suffer twice as much in seeing you suffer. Look, I have the best of care, leave me with Don Alassonati. He will stay with me. I will be waiting for you in eternity. We will always be together. Pray for me. Adieu. . ."

This time John stayed away. His heart had reached the breaking point. Fearful that he could no longer control his emotions, he prayed in his room

November 25th at three in the morning Joseph opened Don Bosco's door. There was no need for words. The two brothers looked at each other. The silence of that night was broken by the sobs of two who had lost a mother.

Two hours later Don Bosco unable to bear the anguish any longer left the house. He was accompanied by his faithful pupil Joseph Buzzetti who on several occasions had saved his life. Together they went to the church of the Consolata, his mother's favorite shrine: In the underground chapel he offered Mass for the repose of her soul. His companion heard him mutter to Our Lady a dedication of himself, of his children, and his work to the Madonna who would have to take his mother's place.

By the time his children were ready for Mass. Don Bosco was back. He had regained control of his emotions. Now, it was his turn to console the children. Many of them had said: "We have all lost our mother, she will surely help us from heaven because she was a saint."

The great void left by the departure of Mamma Margherita was irreplaceable. She had been such a mother. She had never refused help to anyone. The real meaning of her self sacrifice, her heroic poverty only dawned on those she left behind when they went to her room. It was as poor as the cell of a cloistered nun, devoid of everything.

The women who came to place her corpse in the coffin asked for a final favor. They wanted to be permitted to take home some of her clothes. The request was readily granted, yet they found nothing. For until the very end, Mamma Margherita had given her boys all she had. She who had been so poor all her life had died poor. She was buried in her only dress.