Driver,” cried Pinocchio, “do you know that this donkey can cry?”
“Let him cry. He will laugh when he has some hay.”
“But who taught him to speak?”
“He learned to say a few words in a country where he lived for a little while.”
“Poor beast!”
“Do not waste your time pitying a donkey when he cries. Jump on his back and let us go. The night is fresh and the road is long.”
Pinocchio obeyed in silence. The carriage moved on, and when the sun came up they arrived at the Country of Playthings.
This country did not resemble any other in the world. The population was composed entirely of boys. The oldest was thirteen years and the youngest not under eight. In the streets there was a noise, a running around, and a blowing of trumpets that would make your head ache. Everywhere groups of boys played at marbles, at shinny, at ball; some rode on velocipedes and wooden horses; some played hide and seek; others played tag; some sang; others jumped over benches; some walked on their hands with their feet in the air; others tried to kick over their heads; some laughed; some called; some whistled; some made a noise like a hen that has
