“Deities of the universe! do I dream or am I awake? Nevertheless that boy there is Pinocchio.”
“It is Pinocchio, truly!” said Pulcinello.
“It is indeed he!” screamed Rosa, who peeped from behind the scenes.
“It is Pinocchio! It is Pinocchio!” cried in a chorus all the marionettes, coming out and jumping on the stage.
“Pinocchio, come up here to me,” cried Harlequin. “Come and throw your arms around your wooden brothers.”
At this affecting invitation Pinocchio made a jump, and from the back part of the theater he went to the reserved portion; then with another jump from the reserved seats he mounted on the head of the orchestra leader, and from there he jumped upon the stage.
It is impossible to imagine the kisses, the embraces, the words of endearment, the wooden-headed sayings of true and sincere brotherhood that Pinocchio received in the midst of the actors and actresses of that dramatic company. It was a touching sight; but the public, seeing that the comedy was stopped, grew impatient and began to cry, “We want the play.”
It was all breath thrown away, for the marionettes, instead of continuing the dialogue, redoubled
