Author: Hans Christian Andersen

In the city of Florence, near the Piazza del Granduca, there's a small street called Porta Rosa. In this street, right in front of the marketplace where vegetables are sold, stands a pig made of brass with a curious design. Over time, its color has turned dark green, but clear, fresh water pours from its snout, which shines as if polished—and indeed it is, because hundreds of poor people and children grab it with their hands to drink from its mouth. It's quite a sight to see a half-naked boy holding onto the well-formed creature's head as he presses his rosy lips against its jaws. Anyone visiting Florence can easily find the place; just ask the first beggar for the Metal Pig, and they'll direct you.

It was late on a winter evening. The mountains were covered with snow, but the moon shone brightly, and moonlight in Italy is as good as a gray winter's day in the north. In fact, it's better, as the clear air seems to lift us above the earth, while in the north, a cold, gray sky seems to press us down, just as the earth will one day press on us in the grave.

In the garden of the grand duke's palace, under the roof of one of the wings where a thousand roses bloom in winter, a little ragged boy had been sitting all day. The boy could be a symbol of Italy: lovely and smiling, yet suffering. He was hungry and thirsty, but no one gave him anything; and when it got dark and they were about to close the gardens, the porter turned him out. He stood for a long time on the bridge over the Arno, looking at the stars reflected in the water flowing between him and the beautiful marble bridge Delia Trinità. Then he walked towards the Metal Pig, knelt down, hugged it, and drank deeply from the fresh water pouring from its snout. Nearby were a few salad leaves and two chestnuts, which were his supper. No one else was in the street. It was his alone. He boldly sat on the pig's back, leaned forward so his curly head could rest on the animal's head, and before he knew it, he fell asleep.