No harm was intended; it was merely excess of spirits at getting out from school.

But the result was disastrous.

The little fellows faced round in alarm, cried out wildly in an unknown tongue and then, in spite of their burdens, tried to run away.
The inevitable happened: one of them stumbled, fell against the other, and down they both went headlong with a crash.

The tall Madonna was broken in two; Washington had his cocked hat crushed; the cherubs had lost their wings; and as for the elephants and the giraffes, there was a general mix-up of broken trunks and long necks.
The little fellows had scrambled to their feet, and after a frightened glance set up wails of lamentation in which the word _padrone_ recurred fast and fearfully.

By that time Master Brench, with the older pupils, among whom were my cousins, Addison, Theodora and Ellen, had come out.
The old Squire, too, chanced to be approaching with a horse sled; often of late, since the traveling was bad, he had driven to the schoolhouse to get us.
It was a wholly compassionate group that now gathered about the forlorn itinerants.