Boys Who Became Famous Men

	Page
Beni's Keeper: Giotto	1
The Victor: Bach	9
"The Little Boy at Aberdeen": Byron	44
"Tom Pear-Tree's Portrait": Gainsborough	71
Georg's Champion: Händel	92
Six Hundred Plus One: Coleridge	133
The Lion that Helped: Canova	176
Frédéric of Warsaw: Chopin	207

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"The citizen wheeled abruptly, grasped his arm"	Frontispiece
	Page
"He was roused by a hand upon his shoulder"	4
"Sebastian started up, bewildered"	37
"Lay in the grass reading aloud from his favorite story"	56
"A head suddenly appeared above the wall"	84
"The clavichord provided unceasing entertainment"	116
"In its place appeared a noble lion"	193
"Like the tired robbers, were fast asleep"	216

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BOYS WHO BECAME
FAMOUS MEN

One summer morning, long ago, a small boy guarded his father's sheep on a hillside in the Apennines. Up and down the stony pasture he trod, driving back the lambs who strayed too far, and trying all the while to keep his wayward charges in a group where he could count them from time to time. His chief care was to prevent them from straggling into the lonely passes above, where wild animals might set upon and devour them; and to watch that they did not wander down the wooded slope and imprison themselves in the tangled thickets below.

The boy might easily have been mistaken for a dryad, as he sprang from rock to rock, whistling shrilly here, coaxing, calling there, and waving his crook to direct the truants back to the flock. It would have seemed no great wonder if he had really stepped out from a mountain boulder to command these gentle troops, for like all woodland sprites, he was brown. His eyes were brown, his hair was brown, and the tunic reaching barely to his knee was made of cool brown linen. His sleeves were rolled to the shoulder, and his arms and legs, bared ever to the sun, were as brown as bronze itself. A crimson cover-kerchief wound carelessly about his head was the only bit of vivid color on the mountain side.

The sun shone hot, and when Giotto was satisfied that his sheep were all about him, cropping the mosses, he threw himself down in the shade of an ilex-tree, and wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his tunic.

Below, he could see his home nestling in a forest of sturdy pines, and far down the valley shone the roofs and spires of the village. Southward appeared a glimpse of the public road that threaded its way through the hills to the mighty city of Florence. Giotto had never visited the place, but his father, who every spring carried wool thither to market, had often told him of the splendid bridges, towers, and palaces to be seen there. Great men lived there too, Giotto's father had said, and one of them, a certain Cimabue,[2] painted such pictures as the world had never seen before. Of this painter and his colors the boy was never tired of hearing; and as he lay on the grass under the ilex-tree, he was longing unspeakably for the time to come when he himself might go to Florence and behold the pictures wrought by Cimabue's hand.

Musing, his eye fell upon a smooth flat stone near by, and with the sight came a desire that caused him to leap from his lounging position, his face alight with purpose.

"Hold still for a little while, Beni!" he said, addressing one of the sheep that nibbled beside the stone; "just be quiet, and I'll play I'm Cimabue, and draw your picture."

Giotto reached for a sharp bit of slate that had chipped from the rock above, and carefully studying the woolly face before him, began to draw upon the flat white stone. Patiently, thoughtfully he worked, glancing now up at his placid companion, now down at his flinty canvas, and coaxing Beni back into position with tempting handfuls of grass whenever the animal turned to trot away.

The sun rose high, and the boy, bending low over his task, forgot that he was warm, forgot that he was tired, even forgot that he was hungry, until he was roused by a hand upon his shoulder.

"He was roused by a hand upon his shoulder."

He sprang up, startled beyond speech by the touch, for he had believed himself alone with the silence and the sheep.

Before him stood a man in the robes of a scholar. His manner was stately, his face pale and serious. He was gazing intently downward, not upon the little Tuscan shepherd, but at Beni's picture upon the stone.

"Boy, where did you learn to draw?" he exclaimed in a voice of strong excitement.

"Learn to draw?" queried Giotto wonderingly. "Nowhere, sir. I haven't learned."

"Do you mean me to believe that you have had no teacher, no one to tell you how to use your pencil?" The speaker searched the boy's face earnestly, almost fiercely, in his desire to know whether the child spoke the truth.

Giotto, innocent of all but the facts of his simple experience, replied sadly, "My father is too poor to pay for lessons."

"Then God Himself has taught you!" declared the stranger, hoarse with agitation. "What is your name?"

"Giotto, sir."

"I am Cimabue, Giotto."

"Not—not Cimabue, the painter of Florence!" ejaculated the lad, falling back a step, unable to believe that he who stood before him was in reality the hero of his boyish dreams.

"Yes," affirmed the man gravely, "and if you will go with me to Florence, child, I will make of you so great a painter that even the name of Cimabue will dwindle before the name of Giotto."

Down upon one bare knee fell the boy, and grasping the master's hand in both of his, he cried,—

"Oh, teach me to paint pictures, great and beautiful pictures, and I will go with you anywhere—" He broke off suddenly and rose,—"if father will give me leave," he concluded quietly.

"Oho!" and the artist smiled curiously. "If your father forbade, you would not go with me, even though you might become a great painter?"

"No," said Giotto slowly, casting down his eyes, "even though I might become a great painter."

"Most good, most good," burst out the master exultantly; "a true heart should ever direct a painter's hand, and yours is true indeed, Giotto. Come, let us go to him."

Down the steep they hastened, the boy running on before to point the way, the master following with the look of one who has found a diamond in the dust at his feet; and when they came before Giotto's father with their strange request, and the Tuscan peasant learned what fortune had befallen his child, with the promised teaching and protection of Cimabue the renowned, he bared his head, waved his hand toward Florence, and said to the painter solemnly,—

"Take him, master, and teach him the cunning of your brush, the magic of your colors; tell him the secret of your art and the mystery of your fame, but let him not forget his home, nor his mountains, nor his God."

And what became of the little Tuscan shepherd?

He dwelt with Cimabue in the wonderful city of Florence, studying early, studying late; and by the time he had grown to manhood, he was known to be the greatest painter in all the world. Even his master turned to him for instruction, and picture-lovers journeyed from distant countries to see him and behold his works. He was encouraged by the church, honored by the court, loved by the poor; and in all Christendom no name was more truly revered than that of the painter, Giotto.

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Down the principal street of old Ohrdruf came a procession of boys singing a New Year's anthem. The cantor marched before them, wielding his baton high above his head, so that those following could watch its motions and keep in perfect accord. Behind him marched the singers, two by two. They carried neither book nor music sheet, but every eye was fixed steadily upon the silver-tipped baton, and forty voices rose in harmony so splendid and exact that passers-by stopped, listened, and turned to follow the procession down the street.

The singers wore students' caps and gowns of black, and upon the breast of each shone an embroidered Maltese cross of gold, while below it appeared the crimson letters, S. M. C., which denoted that these were the choir-boys of St. Michael's Church.

Marching into an open square, they formed a compact group about the cantor, and started a fresh and stirring hymn; and presently stepped forth the smallest boy of them all, who paused a pace or two in advance of the others, and took up the strain alone. Clear and sweet rang out his voice upon the frosty air, and listeners by the way turned to one another with nods and smiles of pleasure.

"That's little Bach," announced one.

"They say he is one of the best sopranos at St. Michael's," murmured another.

The lad seemed quite unconscious of the impression he was making, for his manner was as unaffected as though he were singing only to the barren trees. His dark face was not noticeably handsome, but was very earnest; and a certain plaintive note in his voice appealed to the company with singular power, for while the carol falling from his lips was blithe indeed, the eyes of his hearers were wet. Fervently he hymned the New Year's joy, now trilling, trilling, like a rapturous bird at springtime; now softly crooning with the sound of a distant violin.

When his solo ended, a round of applause and many bravos burst from his audience, but the boy stepped quickly back to his former place and finished the choral with the others.

In the crowd of bystanders, a man wearing a coat and cap of rough gray fur smiled broadly when the people applauded little Bach.

"Who is the boy?" inquired a stranger at his elbow.

"He is Sebastian Bach and my brother," announced the fur-coated man. "I am the organist at St. Michael's, and he is one of the leading sopranos."

"You should be proud of the child, for he sings remarkably well."

"I am proud of him—ah, here come the collectors."

The singing was done, and in and out among the bystanders went the boys, passing their wooden plates for pennies in exchange for their serenade.

Nearly every one contributed something, for the people of Ohrdruf were genuine music-lovers, and they knew that the money gathered in this fashion would be divided equally among the boys, to use as they pleased.

The choir broke ranks, having paraded and collected in all the streets of the town, and black-robed boys scurried away in every direction.

"Are you bound for home now, Sebastian?" asked Georg Erdmann, the soloist's marching companion.

"No," replied the other, "I am going to the church to practise."

"Oh, little Bach is going to practise on the organ," exclaimed a woman who had overheard the boy's speech. "Come, sister, let's go in and listen while he plays."

Whereupon the two matrons followed him across the square, and the fur-coated organist, who had lately seemed so gratified at Sebastian's success, scowled fiercely.

"I wish that boy would stick to his singing, and let the organ alone," he muttered. "People tell me every day that if I don't look sharp my little brother will beat me at my own profession. He would make me a nice return for my kindness, if, after I have taken him into my house, fed him, clothed him, and taught him everything that he knows about music, he should try to outstrip me in my own work and shame me before my friends. I won't have it! I won't bear it! I'll admit that the boy is industrious and generally obedient, but I sha'n't let him impose on me, if he is of my own flesh and blood. Why should these people go to hear him practise? Why don't they drop in while I am playing? I am the organist, although people seem to forget the fact. I think I'll step over to the church and see what these people are going mad about."

Into the shadowy edifice he stole, taking up his position behind the two women whose coming had so clearly annoyed him. The peal of the organ was filling the place from floor to dome, but though the women listened with eager attention, the face of Christoff Bach gradually softened.

"He is playing his studies, just as I have taught him. Any boy who is willing to work could do as well. There is nothing remarkable in that performance. I needn't be worried for my position yet awhile."

High in the organ-loft Sebastian practised faithfully, unaware of the presence of kindred or stranger. Page after page he rehearsed, sometimes repeating a difficult passage many times before leaving it.

At length he removed the thick scroll from the rack, and replaced it with a second book of musical manuscript. Then the church re-echoed with sounds of a brilliant fugue.

At the first note Christoff Bach started violently and his mouth fell open with astonishment. He strained forward to be sure that he heard aright, and as the inspiriting theme rolled through the vaulted spaces his eyes grew sinister and his hands were clenched so tightly that his nails dug savagely into his palms.

"My book," he gasped; "the music that I copied at Arnstadt for my own use! When did he decide to steal it, and undertake to learn my best selections? He can't keep to his own pieces, but must filch out mine during my absence, and fumble them on the organ so that my friends can laugh at me for being outdone by a ten-year-old. The braggart! I'd thrash him soundly if I hadn't promised father that I'd keep my hands off him; but I'll settle this business before I sleep. The upstart!"

Raging inwardly, Christoff Bach stalked from the church; and half an hour later Sebastian quietly took his music bag under his arm and started homeward, conscious that he was very hungry, and that an appetizing New Year's dinner would be ready when he arrived.

Sebastian Bach had lost both parents by death, and for nearly a year he had lived with his brother at Ohrdruf. Seldom does an orphan fall into such kindly hands, for Christoff had generously supplied the boy's needs, and the organist's young wife had cared for Sebastian with all the gentleness of a sister. They sent him to the Lyceum school, and Christoff taught him music at home. At first the elder brother rejoiced over the boy's progress in organ playing, and often rubbed his hands with pride as he predicted for his pupil a future filled with musical successes. But as the months rolled by, and the lad acquired greater knowledge, Christoff became silent.

Had Sebastian been content to dawdle at his practising, or even to work with moderate zest, his experience might have proved no different from that of most music students; but he did nothing by halves, and whether he worked or whether he played, whether he studied grammar or whether he led the games at school, he attacked the enterprise with such force that he usually came off victorious. Bringing this same determination to bear upon his music, he soon left his fellow-students far behind; and practising hour after hour and day after day, with his mind set upon conquering all obstacles as soon as they appeared, he climbed and presently leaped into musicianly skill. Some of his music mates complained that Sebastian learned more in one week than they did in three or four, and their conclusion was wholly correct; but while they grumbled they forgot that he daily spent twice as many hours at the organ as did any one of them, toiling steadily, unfalteringly, until he had acquired a skill far exceeding theirs.

He was such a good comrade, however, that they readily forgave him his musical progress, and in every game and contest on the playground he was eagerly sought as an ally.

Strangely enough, as Sebastian's facility increased, his teacher's brow clouded. The boy could not understand why his brother was more plainly vexed over a perfect lesson than with a faulty one. In the beginning Christoff had cheered Sebastian on, but of late he had grown crabbed and irritable, and the lessons had come to be hours of harsh and sneering criticism. Sebastian did not dream that his brother was jealous, but this was really the case; and Christoff heard the boy's lessons with deepening anxiety and distaste. Never, however, until to-day had the organist admitted, even to himself, that he was afraid of his younger brother, that he dreaded lest he himself should be outstripped by his pupil.

When Sebastian opened the door of the great kitchen, which served the family for dining-room and living-room as well, a savory odor floated out to greet him.

"Hurrah for the goose, Schwester! I hope it is nearly done!" he cried, throwing down his music and hanging his cap and cloak on a peg beside the door.

Mrs. Bach was kneeling before the open fireplace, busily engaged in turning the fowl that browned so temptingly above the blaze; but upon Sebastian's entrance, she rose and approached him with a troubled look.

"Christoff is very angry with you," she whispered, indicating the chamber above with a motion of her hand.

"Angry with me? What for? What's wrong?" exclaimed Sebastian astonished. Before she could reply, a door above was heard to open, and down the wooden stairway at the end of the kitchen rushed Christoff Bach, his face purple, his eyes gleaming.

Seizing Sebastian roughly by the arm, he loudly demanded,—

"What do you mean by stealing my pieces, and trying to learn them behind my back, so that the town can laugh at me when you perform?"

"Steal! Laugh!" echoed Sebastian blankly, unable to comprehend his brother's meaning.

"Don't pretend to be innocent! You can't hoodwink me any longer, my young cub. I'll see that nothing like this occurs again."

"What have I done, Christoff? I don't know what you mean."

"You stole my book that I copied at Arnstadt, taking pains to lay hold of it while I was safe at Gotha."

"I didn't steal it," returned Sebastian horrified.

"You didn't? What do you call your going into my room, taking music without my permission, and practising it while I am out of town?"

"I didn't suppose you would care a bit. I thought if I learned one or two of Pachelbel's fugues, it would be a nice surprise for you when you came back from Gotha."

"A nice surprise! Ha, ha! Ho, ho! I suppose that next time I go from home for a week you will surprise me by pilfering the contents of my money-drawer."

"I didn't steal, I didn't steal the book," protested Sebastian, paling under the sting of his brother's taunt.

"No, no, Christoff, I'm sure the boy meant no harm," interposed Mrs. Bach, touching her husband's arm with a coaxing gesture; "I knew that he borrowed your music book, but I thought also that you would be pleased with his desire to study it."

"Then you, too, are engaged in a plot to ruin me!" shrieked the organist, carried quite beyond himself by the fury of his jealousy; "I'll see whether I am not to be master in my own house. If I can't leave my belongings in my room without fear that my brother will use them expressly to injure me, and that my wife will help him along with the scheme, I'll begin to put them out of reach!"

Snatching up Sebastian's music bag, Christoff, too impatient to loose its fastenings of hook and tape, ripped it apart, seized his roll of manuscript, thrust it into the shelf of a side cupboard, slammed the steel wicker door, locked it grimly, and pocketed the key.

"Let's have dinner," he growled, drawing out his chair noisily, and dropping into his place at table without a glance toward either member of his household.

Mrs. Bach brought on the steaming goose, but everybody was dismally uncomfortable throughout the meal. The organist's rosy-cheeked wife tried to banish the gloom by speaking cheerily upon subjects not akin to music; but Christoff would not reply, and Sebastian could not, so her brave attempts soon failed, and the room was left in silence.

Sebastian's appetite was gone, and as soon as possible he hurried away to his own room, where, deeply dejected, he sat with his face buried in his folded arms.

As the shade of twilight fell across his bowed figure, a quick footstep sounded behind him, and a soft hand was laid upon his head.

"Come, Bübchen," said Mrs. Bach kindly, "don't worry any more. Christoff didn't mean all that he said to-day, and he is sorry that he spoke as he did. See, I have brought you a bowl of bread and milk, for I noticed that you ate no dinner. So now forgive Christoff for what he said when he was angry, and forget all that happened this afternoon. If you act toward him just as usual, he will do the same with you, and we shall all be happy again."

Sebastian eagerly raised his head.

"He won't think me a thief any longer?"

"No, no. Certainly not. After he had cooled down a bit I explained to him what you meant by borrowing his book, and how hard you practised to learn the second fugue against his return; and he said that he believed that you were truly honest, and he was sorry that he had accused you wrongfully."

"And he'll let me use his book hereafter, and learn to play the fugues?" cried Sebastian joyfully.

Mrs. Bach shook her head slowly, her blue eyes fixed sorrowfully upon the boy.

"No," she said, "you cannot use his book any more. He said that he would never scold you again for having taken it last week, but that you must send him your promise never to play out of it again."

"Schwester!" ejaculated the boy in keen distress, "why does he forbid me to use it?"

"I do not know; I do not know."

"I may as well give up my playing altogether, for I have finished my own pieces; Christoff himself said I might leave them now, and I have no others to study. Music is so costly that I cannot buy any for myself,—yes, I may as well forget that I wished to be a great, great musician. Schwester!" The boy's eyes kindled and his cheeks glowed as he continued ardently,—

"I'd like to play so wonderfully by the time I'm a man that whole audiences would sometimes smile and sometimes cry with the sweetness of my music, and little children would drop their toys in the street and stand in my garden listening. But how can I learn without any music to study?"

"Buy a book from the cantor with the money you earned to-day in the parade," suggested Mrs. Bach hopefully.

Sebastian shook his head. "I can't," he explained, "because I gave half of it to Georg Erdmann, so that he might go to Gotha to visit his grandmother, and I paid the rest to a gardener for a present that I brought home yesterday for you."

Throwing open the door of his closet, Sebastian stepped inside, and quickly emerged, bearing in his arms a tiny rose-tree in full bloom.

"I got it for your New Year's gift, and meant to put it on the dinner table, but the trouble with Christoff made me forget all about it."

"Oh, oh, it is a beautiful present, and so fragrant, so fragrant! But, Bübchen," she said in a fondly chiding tone, "you should not have spent your pennies for me; I have so much and you so little."

"I have you, and—and Christoff, and music," returned Sebastian soberly.

"You are truly a man, and surely a baby," said Mrs. Bach, laughing merrily. At sound of a voice from below stairs she grew instantly serious.

"Christoff is calling me, and I must go down. You promise, Sebastian, never to play out of his book again?"

The boy nodded quickly.

"I promise," he said.

After she had gone Sebastian sat for hours, thinking. Again and again he lived over the bitter scene of the afternoon, wincing painfully every time that memory whispered the word "stole." The murmur of voices below ceased finally, and he realized that the rest of the household was wrapped in sleep. He lighted his candle and tried to study his lessons for school, but a sense of sickening disappointment bore down upon him so heavily that, though his eyes sternly travelled the printed lines, his mind had room for no other thoughts than these,—

"I cannot play. I have no music."

He was startled from his reverie by the sound of a piteous whine. He listened for a repetition of the plaint, and when the whine expanded to a howl, Sebastian leaped from his chair, and dashed through the corridor and down the kitchen stair, with a pang of recollection.

"I forgot to let Grubel in, and it's bitter cold outside!"

He made his way swiftly through the dark room, unbolted the outer door, and flung it wide.

A huge St. Bernard bounded into the room, and Sebastian, brushing the snow from the shaggy coat, caressed his pet affectionately.

"Now, Grubel, Schwester doesn't like you to stay in this room. Come along, old fellow, into the passage!"

The dog obediently followed his master across the dark kitchen, and trotted through the door that Sebastian held open for him.

As the boy sought the stairway again, his attention was arrested by a flood of moonlight pouring through the uncurtained pane and illuminating one of the much-used music sheets that had fallen from the bag which Christoff had thrown into the window-sill after locking his own book behind the wicker door.

"How bright the night is," thought Sebastian. "One could read the notes, I believe, without a candle."

Bending over the pages, he found it to be quite true that the dots and lines were clearly definable.

"I wonder if I could write well by such a light; I'll try it," and idly lifting a pen from his sister's table, he dipped it and scribbled his name across the top of the music sheet.

"Very good," observed he, eyeing the scrawl with admiration; then a thought shot through his brain that seemed to turn him to stone, for he stood motionless, with head thrown back and pen uplifted, while the silvery moonlight, bathing him from head to foot, transfixed him into a marble statue of expectancy.

"I wonder if I could, I wonder if I could!" he whispered excitedly. "I'll try now, this very night. If I could get hold of Christoff's fugues, and copy them here in the moonlight, I should have a book of my own, and still keep my promise not to play out of his."

Turning to the cupboard that held the coveted treasure, Sebastian gazed wistfully into its second shelf. The doors were of strong steel lattice work, and Sebastian saw that it would be impossible either to insert his hand through the finely interlaced bars, or to bend them in the hope of securing a wider opening.

The boy's burning desire to obtain the music, and his sense of the justice of his purpose, would not let him draw back without a mighty effort.

Casting about for some means of assistance, his eye fell upon his brother's violin case. Opening this, he hastily extracted the bow, strong and slender, inserted it between the powerful wires, deftly worked the roll of music to and fro, drawing it ever nearer until it lay at the outer edge of the shelf. Slipping one finger and thumb through the mesh, he seized the roll firmly and drew it from the cabinet. For a moment he could do nothing but hug the volume madly to his breast, in the joy of his accomplishment; then running noiselessly up to his room for copy-paper, he speedily returned, spread the sheets before him on his sister's table, drew up a chair, and set to work.

Swiftly and steadily he wrote, bending very low above the page, that he might read his text correctly. He took no note of the flight of time, but as the moon rose higher in the heavens, his pages grew shadowy, and he was obliged to draw the table into the sheen of her passing radiance. The fire died out, the room grew cold, and the boy from time to time threw down his pen, and beat and blew upon his benumbed fingers, warming them to further activity.

At last the light failed utterly, and in the gloom Sebastian rose, carefully rolled his brother's manuscript, strapped it as usual, pushed it through the lattice, adjusted it to its former position by aid of the violin bow, gathered up his freshly written sheets, and crept cautiously to his room.

Next morning he met his brother at breakfast, and Christoff secretly wondered that the boy wore so cheerful a countenance. No reference was made to the distressing scene of yesterday, and the brothers set off together, Christoff on his way to a pupil, and Sebastian to school, quite as though the painful episode had not happened.

Sebastian attended his various classes like one in a dream, for his mind was filled with his daring enterprise, and the tremendous effort he must put forth before his book should be completed.

His zeal did not abate, and at evening he waited breathlessly until the household fell into heavy slumber; then once again he stole down to the kitchen, arranged his materials at the window, and toiled feverishly until the white light faded.

Night after night he repeated his adventurous vigil, and no one of the family suspected that anything extraordinary was taking place in the house.

To Sebastian's surprise, he discovered that the moon rose later each night; and ere long he was obliged to wait up so late for his shimmering torch that he was forced to bathe his face in icy water, tramp up and down his chamber, and bite his tongue severely in order to keep awake. Even these heroic measures failed when the moon was delayed until the middle of the night; and Sebastian realized with dismay that he must set his work aside until the time in the following month when his friendly lantern would begin again to mount the sky at an early hour.

Laboring with such hindrances as dim and fleeting light, nearsighted eyes, loss of sleep, and piercing cold, the lad's progress was necessarily slow. Week after week, month after month, he continued at his weighty task; but never once did his interest flag nor his patience fail. His organ lessons with Christoff were carried on in a half-hearted fashion, old selections being rehearsed, and studies previously finished, indifferently played and heard. Had not Sebastian been fired with a dominant purpose, and bent upon mastering his art at any cost to himself, he would doubtless, at this period of cold laxity on his teacher's part, have abandoned his music altogether. But deep in his breast there was rooted a desire so strong, a hope so pure, that even Christoff's unjust denial had not power to discourage him.

If the elder Bach had been less orderly in his habits, Sebastian would not always have found the manuscript within reach; but though Christoff took it daily from the cabinet, he always returned it precisely to the place and position which it had occupied before.

One night Sebastian barely escaped detection. He had just descended to the kitchen, and was groping about for the violin box, when accidentally he stumbled upon the hearth-rug, and overturned a chair with a great clatter. Christoff, roused by the unwonted noise, bounded from his bed and made for the stair, pausing just long enough on the way to light a candle.

Sebastian was appalled at hearing his brother's step. Dropping to the floor, he crept hastily under the dining-table, convinced that its drapery would not screen him from his brother's eagle eye. He shook from head to foot, not with fear of punishment, but with dread of losing his chance at the fugues.

Christoff, however, came only half-way down, and stood upon the stair, holding the candle high above his head and peering about the dusky kitchen for traces of intruders. Nothing out of the ordinary greeted his gaze, for Sebastian had hastily righted the chair before beating his retreat, and the music roll had not yet been taken from the cupboard. The organist, perceiving no mark of robbers, heaved a sigh of relief and quickly repaired to his room, deciding that the disturbance must have been an ugly dream.

Six months had glided slowly by, bringing their gifts of increasing warmth and fragrance, when, one clear midsummer's night, Sebastian finished his book. He was so beset with agitation upon discovering that only one page remained to be copied that he could scarcely command himself to pen the finishing notes.

"I'm almost done," he murmured over and over, as his quill flew across the paper. "One line more, and the fugues will be mine! Now, a single measure, a single measure! One note—ah—it is done, it is done!"

The monument to little Bach's courage and fidelity was built.

The pen dropped from his aching fingers, and, overcome with weariness, he laid down his head beside the closely written sheets and fell asleep.

His friend, the moon, shone upon him brightly for a time, and in her pearly beams the tired child's face was as white as the page beside it. Even she withdrew at length, and nothing disturbed the silence of the room but the regular breathing of the sleeper.

He was awakened by a voice exclaiming,—

"Bübchen, what are you doing here?"

Sebastian started up, bewildered, for Mrs. Bach stood beside him, and the kitchen was blazing with sunshine.

"Sebastian started up, bewildered."

"I—I don't understand," whispered he, dazed by the brightness and the woman's presence.

Mrs. Bach laughed and shook him good-naturedly.

"You're still asleep, that's what is the matter. See, it's breakfast time, and I am ready to put the kettle on. What have you been doing here?"

Sebastian merely pointed to his final page, lying next Christoff's, and Mrs. Bach gathered the truth at once.

Up went her hands in astonishment, but prudence stifled the comments that rose to her lips.

"Quick! Run up to your room with your papers, and I'll get this roll back into the cabinet. Hurry, for Christoff will be down in a minute!"

Sebastian obeyed, and from the bottom of the stairs Mrs. Bach called him as usual when breakfast was ready.

The following months were filled with delight for Sebastian, who studied his fugues with ever-deepening happiness. For this practice, he intentionally chose the hour when his brother was engaged in teaching at a distant quarter of the town. Every day, when Christoff set off to the house of his pupil, Sebastian would hurry to the church, and play from his precious book until time for the organist to return for his own organ-work.

Winter had come again to Ohrdruf, and one day Sebastian climbed to the organ-loft, placed his cherished book upon the rack, and began to play the Pachelbel fugues.

Mrs. Bach, walking in the street, heard the music and entered the church. Passing up the stair, she drew a stool from a shadowy corner and sat down to listen and enjoy.

Sebastian welcomed her with a nod and smile, for the sympathy of his sister-in-law was his daily comfort.

One number after another he played, and the harmonies swelling from the organ at touch of his flying fingers vibrated through the sacred place from threshold to chancel.

Musician and listener were so absorbed that they failed to hear a footfall upon the stair, and both were unaware that a third presence was added to the gallery.

Like a thunderbolt out of a blue heaven came a derisive hoot in Sebastian's ear. His hands were grasped as in a vise, and Christoff's face bent menacingly above him.

"Again, again, again," thundered the organist; "again you have stolen my book, despite your promise!"

Sebastian struggled to his feet, and confronted his accuser quietly.

"I have not stolen your book. This one is mine."

"Yours," sneered Christoff; "pray, where did you get a book of Pachelbel's fugues?"

Further concealment was useless, now that his brother had discovered the existence of his manuscript, so Sebastian in a few words told the story of his painful and valiant achievement.

Christoff listened amazedly, but no relenting gleam softened his look of scorn. He laughed harshly when the tale was ended, and, catching the fated book from the rack, rolled it tightly and crowded it into his leathern girdle.

"I'll end this pretty business at once," he shouted, bringing his teeth together with a snap. "Finding that steel lattices are not sufficient protection against your prying fingers, I'll lock my book behind a door of solid iron, and," triumphantly tapping the volume in his belt, "I'll put this one along with it for safe keeping."

"Christoff, husband!" cried Mrs. Bach, her voice breaking into sobs; "do not be so cruel as to take his book away. He has worked so long, so hard—"

She ended her defence abruptly as her eyes fell upon the boy.

No trace of passion or grief distorted Sebastian's features, but, instead, his countenance was singularly serene. Turning toward his brother with a smile of mysterious power and sweetness, he said,—

"You may lock my book behind twenty iron doors if you wish, Christoff, but the music is all written in my heart. You can bury my volume in the earth or the ocean, but you never can take the fugues away from me again, for I have memorized them, every one."

Many years later King Frederick II. of Prussia assembled his brilliant court in the throne room at Potsdam to listen to a concert arranged by the musicians of the royal palace.

The program was but fairly begun when a page entered the hall, and dropped upon his knee before the king, with a whispered message.

Frederick bent with impatience toward the lad who had dared to bring a petition from any one at a moment so ill chosen, and was about to dismiss him abruptly, when his ear caught one word of the boy's tremulous speech.

The monarch's look of annoyance changed to one of joyful surprise, and rising quickly, he commanded the musicians to instant silence.

"Bach has come," declared the king in exultant tone; "Bach has come; the mighty maker of music. Bring him hither that we may do him homage!"

A hundred exclamations greeted the king's announcement, and presently a man of distinguished appearance and quiet dignity was ushered into the apartment.

Down from his throne stepped the king, advancing half-way up the hall to meet the new-comer. By a quick gesture, he forbade the stranger to bend the knee, but said simply,—

"Play for us."

Without a word the visitor sat down before the piano, and speedily the room was filled with such music as had never before been heard in the king's palace.

Frederick would not permit him to leave the instrument, but sat close by, in rapt enjoyment, while Bach gave one after another of his marvellous compositions.

"For a long, long time I have known of you, Sebastian Bach," murmured the king, when at last they parted for the night. "Strange tales have come to my ears of the court composer of Poland and Saxony. I have heard of the princes who are proud to take you by the hand; of the beggars that listen in companies before your door; but I never imagined that music could be such music as you have given us here."

That night, had the palace of Potsdam had heart to feel and brain to understand, it surely would have throbbed with hospitality, for within its well-defended walls slept two who led the world in thought and action: one was Frederick the Great; the other, Bach the Victor.

---

"Vacation's here! Vacation's here!" shouted George Byron, bursting into the room and throwing his books upon the table.

"And a pity it is," returned his mother coldly; "you are so bad at numbers that you ought to be at school every day in the year."

George flushed deeply, but did not reply. He had learned that when Mrs. Byron wore this worried expression it was wiser of him to keep silence. Doubtless she had received one of those troublesome business letters again. Such missives always did disturb matters in the Aberdeen apartment, often causing Mrs. Byron to speak sharply to those about her.

This lady had belonged to the Gordons, one of the proudest families in Scotland; and upon her marriage with handsome Jack Byron, her fortune was seized to pay his numerous debts. Consequently, at her husband's death a few years later, Mrs. Byron was left in the city of Aberdeen with scarcely enough to keep herself and her child from want. The tiny rooms in Broad Street were filled with the massive furniture and costly vases, mirrors, and china that Mrs. Byron had brought from her father's house at her bridal; but the cupboard was scantily provisioned, and much thought and labor were required to keep George's apparel in trim for school. While, however, Mrs. Byron spent only pennies where her neighbors lavished pounds, her brain and fingers contrived so successfully that neither she nor the lad ever presented a shabby appearance.

"Come, George," said the lady more gently, repenting her impatience, "put your books away, and May will serve tea at once."

The boy's face brightened, and whistling softly, he crossed the room to the bookshelves. The odd slide and sudden halt with which he moved, together with the stout cane upon which he leaned, betokened that "the little boy at Aberdeen" was not quite like other boys.

Sadly enough, George Byron was lame, a burden very hard for an impetuous lad to bear. He was, however, too plucky ever to allude to his affliction in the presence of his playmates, but carried his misfortune bravely and independently as long as his companions seemed to forget it, and seldom was any of them so unkind as to mention his crooked feet. Athletic sports were his chief delight, although there were few that he could enter. At running, leaping, and dancing he was helpless, always forced to stand aside and watch when these were in progress; but he was an expert archer, could throw farther than any boy at the grammar school, and with the sling his marksmanship was astonishing. He was a prime favorite with all the boys at school and in the neighborhood of Broad Street, and he was thoroughly accustomed to the rôle, for his handsome face and fun-loving disposition speedily won admiration wherever he went.

He gayly joined the boys in their pranks and adventures, often with his ringing voice and daring spirit commanding the expeditions, but, to the lads' amazement, he found his best enjoyment in the company of a little girl named Mary Duff. She was such a pretty child that passers-by often turned to look after her, and her soft voice and sweet manner showed her to be a real little gentlewoman. The mothers approved of this friendship, for they said that Mary improved George's manners, and that George helped Mary with her reading. The children loved each other dearly, and seldom did there pass a day when they two were not seen together.

To-night, at bedtime, George said:

"Wake me early, please, mother, for Mary, Aladdin, and I are going to spend the day by the river."

Mrs. Byron promised, and accordingly the next morning George felt himself being shaken by the shoulder, while from the midst of a dream he heard his mother say,—

"Wake up, wake up! This is the third time that I have called you, and Mary is already here."

Up sprang George, all drowsiness put to flight. When he had dressed himself and finished his bowl of oatmeal, he joined Mary in the drawing-room with a tin box of sandwiches, and an apple in each pocket.

The visitor bore a small basket containing her contributions to the luncheon; and as she slipped off the sofa at George's entrance her pinafore and little sunbonnet rustled loudly in their starchy crispness.

Down the stairs hurried the pair, bent upon calling for Aladdin, the third member of their company.

As they reached the street, George was accosted by Bobby Black, who, with a group of neighboring boys, was emerging from his gate opposite.

"Come on, Byron, we're going to watch the cricket game in Murdoch's field!"

George shook his head decisively.

"I'm going somewhere else."

"Ha, ha! Ho, ho!" jeered the boys in chorus, and Bobby called out in a teasing tone,—

"Oh, you'd rather go with Mary Duff than with us. You're Mary Duff's beau! Ha, ha! You're Mary Duff's beau!"

The little girl crimsoned with annoyance at Bobby's silly taunt, but George retorted quickly,—

"Well, you can't be Mary Duff's beau until you learn to wash your hands."

The laugh turned on Bobby, and George and Mary set off in quest of comrade number three.

As they approached a square stone building, a man standing before its open door disappeared within, only to return immediately, leading Aladdin, the most captivating of Shetland ponies.

This animal was George's one important possession, but instead of a plaything, it had been purchased for the boy's convenience in getting about. George's poor feet made walks of any great length painful undertakings, but sitting on Aladdin's back, he could go as far and as swiftly as he desired.

The pony was black and satiny for the most part, but upon his forehead a small white patch was to be seen, and his mane and tail were snowy. He was so fond of his master that he would follow him about like a kitten; and he always whinnied joyfully whenever the boy appeared at the stable door.

George tied his box and Mary's basket to the small red saddle, and turned to his companion.

"We'll ride and tie, of course. You mount first, and leave him at Baillie's stile."

Stooping, as he had read that the great lairds did, he allowed Mary to place her chubby foot in his clasped hands. Then, with her agile spring, he landed her securely on Aladdin's back. She gathered up the reins and trotted away, while George took up his walking stick and limped slowly after her.

Their plan was the old one, followed often by farmers and mountaineers, when two persons travel with one horse. One rides to a certain point, dismounts, ties the horse and walks on, while the other trudges along on foot until he comes to the place where the horse is waiting, when he mounts and rides to a second stopping-place, secures the animal for his friend, and once more tramps on his way. Thus, by changes of walking and riding, a goodly journey can be accomplished with less fatigue than might be supposed.

To-day the playmates proceeded along the wooded shore of the river Dee, at no great distance from home, but far enough that they were able to walk on the soft earth, to stand in a forest of mighty trees, and to bask in sunshine undimmed by the city's smoke and grime.

The journey was a difficult one for George, for he insisted upon walking his full share of the way, and, hopping along with his stout cane, he would sometimes be obliged to lean heavily against a tree or rock, panting violently and clutching at his support with both hands. He dared not drop down on the mossy bank, lest with no one near to lend him a hand he might not manage to get up again. So, after but two or three turns of marching, George sat down upon a stump and waited for Mary and Aladdin to come up with him.

The pony, with his dainty sunbonneted rider, soon came into view, and George hailed them from the roadside.

"Hi! Let's stay here. Don't you think we have gone far enough?"

"Yes," said Mary, pushing back her bonnet and glancing about the quiet place, where dazzling sunbeams pierced through the leafy ceiling and lightened the carpet of gay green moss; "do let's stay here; it seems nice and far."

Whereupon the lady slipped from her saddle, and leaving Aladdin to his own devices, after prudently freeing him of box and basket, joined George on the stump.

"What shall we do first?" she queried.

"Let's throw clay balls," suggested George, rising quickly.

"Let's!" agreed Mary. So together they scrambled down the river bank, and heaped a piece of driftwood with stiff clay. Returning, George cut two slender switches from a willow-tree and presented one to his partner. Then he rolled a bit of clay into a marble-sized ball, pressed it firmly on the tip of the rod, and, with a quick fling, sent the ball far out into the river.

George wielded his twig so dexterously that he could tap a mast in a passing boat, and selecting almost any tree, stone, or sail within a range of two hundred yards, could send his pudgy bullet home.

His cheeks soon glowed with the fun and exercise, and at every swish of the withe he called his comrade to bear witness to his unerring aim.

Mary, following his example, faithfully loaded her switch and let fly at every target that her fancy chose. Her success, however, was not brilliant, for her ball seldom soared beyond the shadows of the trees under which they sat, and never by any chance approached the object she had intended to hit. After numerous fruitless efforts, she laid aside her wand and brought from her basket a rag-doll which George had christened "Heatheress."

Luncheon followed, and when Mary had spread the repast on a napkin, she said,—

"Let's play house while we eat, and I'll be the mother, and you be the father, and Heatheress will be the baby, and Aladdin—oh, yes, Aladdin will be the visitor."

Now George would have writhed with shame had the boys at school heard of his entering into such girlish pastimes as this, but Mary was always so ready to join any game that he suggested, no matter how much she might dislike it, that he felt in duty bound to play her plays a part of the time. Besides, Mary Duff was so sweet, so winsome, that George found it hard to refuse anything that she asked; so he played "house" with a will, and enjoyed it nearly as much as she.

"Mr. Aladdin," called Mistress Mary, as she gathered her family about the board, "please don't take the trouble to come downstairs; I have just sent your luncheon up to your room."

The guest was evidently pleased with the arrangement, for he ate heartily of the delicious green things that he found in his apartment.

When the children had finished, they withdrew to the screen of a blasted oak and sat rigidly still, watching the birds fly down and carry away the crumbs of the feast.

Later, they made little rafts of chips gathered from the river, furnished them with paper sails and pebbly cargoes, and set them afloat for Spain, Africa, and Jamaica.

Finally, George drew from the breast of his jacket a faded, ragged book, and lay in the grass reading aloud from his favorite story of Robert Bruce, while Mary leaned against a tree near by and listened. Before the reader had reached the climax of the tale, he glanced over his book, only to discover the little girl fast asleep against her tree, with her lap full of wild flowers. Forbearing to disturb her, George finished the story in silence. Then the book slipped from his hands and he, too, stretched on the cool grass, with a few stray sunbeams flickering across him, sank down, down, to the land of dreams.

"Lay in the grass reading aloud from his favorite story."

A sociable whinny roused the boy at length, and scrambling up by aid of a slender sapling, he noticed that the shadows had greatly lengthened during his nap.

"Wake up, Mary," he called, tweaking one of her brown curls; "I promised your mother that I would bring you back by five o'clock, and we must go now."

Mary assented, as she usually did to whatever George proposed, and in five minutes she had sprung into the red saddle and cantered off to the first tying-place.

"Where's mother?" cried George, entering the house half an hour later.

"She's gone to Mrs. McCurdie's for tea," replied May Gray, the Scotch woman who had been George's nurse.

"Then I'll get Mary to come and have tea with me," and Master Byron hurried down the stairs and through his neighbor's gate. He returned shortly, bringing Mary with him; and the children were in the midst of their meal, when the street door was thrown hastily open and Mrs. Byron stepped into the room. Her cheeks were scarlet, and her eyes flashing with excitement.

"What is it, mother?" demanded George, rising, alarmed by her visible agitation.

Mrs. Byron placed both hands upon his shoulders, and looking down into his eyes, said hurriedly,—

"Your great-uncle, Lord Byron, is dead; and you, George, are now Lord Byron of Rochdale, master of Newstead Abbey, and chief of the Erneis."

The boy looked bewildered, and resting one hand upon the table for support, he bent earnestly toward his mother.

"I am Lord Byron?"

"You are! you are! Mrs. McCurdie has just come from Newstead, and she told me that uncle died nearly a month ago. There has been some mistake, else we should have heard of it before. I never knew the old gentleman, for he and poor Jack were not the best of friends, but I cannot think that he would have had us left in ignorance of his death. Doubtless the letters and papers will come very soon, and then, my lord, you can go to England and take possession of your castle."

"It—is—very—strange," murmured the boy. Always he had known that some day he would probably come into his uncle's title and estates, but he had somehow expected the momentous event to delay its happening until he should become a man. That honor and riches should at this time come to him, little George Byron, of Broad Street, Aberdeen, was an overwhelming surprise. True to his nature, whenever deeply moved by joy or sorrow, he grew silent, trying to settle in his own mind whether he was the same boy who had thrown clay balls in the woods that day.

Mrs. Byron rapidly explained some of the changes to come, and George listened as though stunned by the glories of his prospects.

May Gray, his devoted old nurse, slipped out and imparted the news of her dear boy's succession to all whom she met.

Presently neighbors and friends came flocking in to hear the story. The drawing-room became quickly crowded with guests, and they made so much of George, shaking his hand, patting his head, bowing to him, and offering compliments he did not understand, that the boy began to think being a lord was rather tiresome business.

When they departed, George closed the door upon the last one with a loud sigh of relief, and went in search of Mary, with whom he had not spoken since his mother had arrived with her astounding message.

The little girl sat demurely on a low stool, and as George approached her, she rose and backed timidly away.

The boy looked at her curiously.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"I—I must go home," she whispered, making for the door.

"No, you mustn't! Your mother said you were to wait until your father called for you. It's terribly early yet."

"But I must go," insisted the child, with her hand upon the knob.

"Mary!"

George's tone was suddenly masterful. "Are you mad at me?"

"No, oh, no," she replied, shaking her head vigorously.

"Well, something makes you seem very queer. If you're not mad, tell me why you're starting home!"

Mary looked at him steadily for a moment, then her brown eyes filled with tears, her chin began to quiver, and she sobbed out,—

"I can't play with you any more, George, because your mother said you were—a lord, and—awful rich!"

Down went her face into the circle of her chubby arm.

"Mary, don't cry, please don't cry!" entreated George with a suspicious break in his own voice. "I like you the very same, the very same, and I'm just as I was, Mary. Truly I am."

Perceiving with distress that the little maid's plump shoulders still shook with grief, George regarded her uncertainly for a moment, then hurried across to Mrs. Byron, who sat busily writing at her desk.

"Mother," he inquired anxiously, "do you see any difference in me since I have been made a lord?"

"No," replied she, laughing, without looking up, "certainly not."

"There! I told you!" he exclaimed triumphantly, returning to the side of his sorrowful guest. "You will believe mother, won't you?"

A nod of the head against the pinafore sleeve rewarded him. Then from the depths of the elbow came in a choking voice,—

"But, George, you are going away!"

"Yes," he returned sadly, "I am going away."

A fresh outburst of weeping greeted his admission, and at his wits' end for means to comfort the little woman, he declared,—

"When I leave, Mary, I'll give Aladdin to you."

"Oh, George, Aladdin!"

Up came the tear-stained face, dimpling with joy and surprise.

"Yes, Aladdin. And whenever you ride him, it will be just as nice as playing with me, won't it now?"

"Oh, yes," she assented graciously.

"And, Mary," went on the boy earnestly, the while something tugged hard at his heart and threatened too to strangle him, "let's promise that all our lives you'll like me better than anybody else in the world, and I'll like you better than anybody else in the world."

"Let's!" she agreed; and George took her brown little hand in his, and pressed it to his lips, in such fashion as he had read that the gallant Gordons greeted the ladies of their clan.

The following day came a letter with an impressive yellow seal, confirming the fact of George's lordship.

Then followed a sale of all the furniture and draperies which the Byrons had used in the Broad Street flat; and one morning in July, the family left Aberdeen for England.

They were not to go to the castle at once to live, for the Earl of Carlisle, George's new guardian, had decreed that he should attend one of the great English schools for boys, joining his mother only at vacation times. Mrs. Byron did not desire to spend the months of George's absence alone in the great establishment, so she had taken a house near the school, where, except for occasional visits to the new domain, they would reside while George's education was being further advanced. But now they were going for a glimpse of their future home, and after to-day, Aberdeen would know them no more.

May Gray accompanied the Byrons to England, sturdily refusing to be left behind.

Mary Duff attended them to the coach, and the children's parting was a tearful one on both sides. But after many embraces, and the boy's promise to send her a letter every week, Mary allowed George to mount to the seat beside his mother; and as the conveyance rolled slowly away, she waved both chubby hands in response to George's steadily fluttering handkerchief, until the coach, Blue Dog, was lost to view.

After a night spent at the Nottingham inn, the Byrons hired a carriage and drove out to Newstead.

When they came to the Abbey woods, and the woman at the toll-bar held out her hand to receive their coins, Mrs. Byron, playfully feigning to be a stranger in order to hear what the toll-keeper would say, asked lightly,—

"To whom does this place belong?"

"The owner, Lord Byron, has been some weeks dead."

"And who is the next heir?" ventured Mrs. Byron.

Innocently the woman replied,—

"They say it is a little boy who lives at Aberdeen."

"And this is he, bless him!" ejaculated May Gray, unable to keep the secret; and at her words, the astonished toll-woman bowed nearly to the ground, hysterically commanding the baby who clung to her skirts to salute his young lord.

The Byrons drove through the Abbey woods, which proved to be an arm of the very Sherwood forest where long ago had dwelt Robin Hood and his merry men. Past the lake, with its fish, pleasure boats, and the toy ships which the old lord had delighted to sail to the end of his days; through the park, stocked with deer for the chase, and up to the Abbey they came.

The boy caught his breath at sight of the grand old structure which had been the glory and retreat of hundreds of monks in the Middle Ages, and which later King Henry the Eighth had presented to a certain Lord Byron, who had fashioned one of its wings into a princely dwelling. The visitors drove around the ancient pile, feasting their eyes upon its Anglo-Gothic beauties; then they descended from the carriage and entered the building. Guided by one of the servants in charge of the premises, they visited the dim cloisters, where scores of hooded monastics had daily walked; the chapel, the cells, the castle dungeons, the vast hall where the first Lord Byron had entertained three hundred guests at Christmas dinner; the late lord's drawing-room, the art gallery, and the mighty kitchen.

Everywhere the news had spread that the boyish guest was none other than the rightful lord of Newstead; and wherever George Byron appeared, men uncovered deferentially, and women and children offered sweeping curtsies. Mrs. Byron smiled at these with proud acknowledgment, and May Gray chuckled without ceasing throughout the progress, but George's face was uncommonly grave.

When his feet became too weary to allow of further touring, the party sat down before an open-air luncheon, spread for them on a table in the shade of a great elm.

Mrs. Byron, noting George's sombre silence, asked curiously,—

"Of what are you thinking, my lord?"

"Of Mary," he returned soberly.

"Of Mary," she exclaimed in surprise; "doesn't the sight of all this grandeur atone for her loss?"

"No," he returned, "nothing can take the place of Mary."

"Then I'll tell you what we'll do," rejoined his mother quickly; "if you promise to study well at school, and bring in good reports, we will come back to Newstead at holiday time, and invite Mary to spend Christmas with us here."

"Oh, mother, do you mean it?"

"Certainly, I mean it."

"Hurrah, hurrah, for Newstead and Christmas and Mary!"

One day in the city of London there was published a strangely beautiful poem. Upon the first page was printed the title, "Childe Harold," and just beneath it appeared the name of the author: George Gordon Byron.

When the scholars and students and fashionable folk read the little book, they were spellbound by the beauty of the story and the verse. Immediately they said to one another,—

"We must know him, this poet who can write such enchanting lines;" and forthwith they thronged to his house to learn what sort of a person he might be.

They found a man, young, genial, elegant in appearance and cordial in manner. A few noticed that he limped slightly when he walked; others that his features were strikingly handsome; and all agreed that any one so thoughtful and talented should be sought out and welcomed to every one of their homes.

Thereupon, invitations began to pour in upon the poet, every post bringing letters from persons of rank, families of quiet life, statesmen, professors, and even people from the provinces, urging George Byron to visit them and enjoy the hospitality they had to offer. The citizens of London opened their doors to him with one accord, vying with one another for the privilege of receiving him under their roofs.

The young lord was astonished at the warmth of their enthusiasm, and to this day is remembered his saying,—

"I awoke one morning and found myself famous."

---

Tommy Gainsborough did a very dreadful thing. If he had not possessed such a trick in the use of pen and pencil, this never would have happened. But, you see, he spent most of his school hours in drawing pictures on the fly-leaves of his books, which pleased the other boys so greatly that he filled their books also with sketches of people, trees, and houses; while they, in return, worked out his problems in fractions and wrote his spelling lessons for him. His copy-book he was content to keep himself, for he chanced to be the best penman at the Sudbury Grammar School, and his pages were always elegantly inscribed.

As the months went by, and his lesson papers were daily found to be correct, the teacher's reports of Master Gainsborough's progress proved highly gratifying to the boy's parents. But while Jack supplied his answers in arithmetic, and Joe prompted him with names and dates at history time, Tommy Gainsborough's ignorance of these subjects was deplorable, and his conduct towards parents and teachers was deceiving indeed.

As spring came on he grew restless under the confinement of walls and rules, and longed for the dewy fields and fragrant lanes. If only he might spend the days outside, he thought, instead of sitting mewed up in this dreary schoolroom, what splendid woodland pictures he could draw. Twice he asked the schoolmaster to excuse him, but Mr. Burroughs curtly refused, since it would be unfair to dismiss one pupil to roam the meadows and keep the others at their tasks. Tommy next tried his father, but that gentleman replied with all seriousness,—

"My son, you have worked so well this term that I wish you to keep a perfect record until the end of the year. When vacation comes you will be free to spend every day out of doors, but your education is too important to be slighted for pleasure."

Tommy was much disappointed at this decision, and, I am sorry to say, closed the door quite ungently as he started for school.

The day was an enchanting one, and as the boy trudged along the unpaved streets that ran between rows of quaint and ancient houses, a feeling of hot rebellion took possession of him.

"Father does as he likes," he muttered, "and I think I ought to do the same way once in a while. What is the sense in listening to old Burroughs drone all day about nouns and divisors?"

The fresh spring breeze, with its scents of green things growing, was so tantalizing that he paused before the schoolhouse door and thoughtfully wrinkled his brow. Presently his face grew defiant, and he dashed into the schoolroom with the look of a man who had made up his mind to do as he pleased.

Finding himself to be the first arrival, he hurried to his desk. Deftly tearing from his copy-book a slip of paper resembling those upon which Mr. Gainsborough wrote Tommy's occasional excuses, the boy dipped his pen and quickly wrote the words,—

"Give Tom a holiday."

Now if he had used his own style of penmanship the ruse would have been readily understood by the schoolmaster; but he boldly imitated his father's finely pointed lettering to a nicety, and at the end jotted down the initials, "J. G.," with two short lines drawn under them, just as his father would have signed the note.

Carefully drying his pen, he closed his desk and left the building before any one else arrived. He waited around the corner until almost time for school to begin, then rushed into the schoolroom, now filled with noisy pupils, marched straight up to the master's desk, and presented his forged excuse.

Mr. Burroughs read the slip with some surprise.

"Of course, Tom," he said, "if your father wishes you to have a holiday, I shall not refuse permission; but I understood that he wished you to remain steadily at school until vacation time."

"May I go?" queried the boy hastily, not caring to discuss the question.

Mr. Burroughs bowed, but laid the slip of paper in his desk. Tommy, not lingering for further debate, sped from the room; and when he reached the place in the next street, where, under Dame Curran's rosebush, he had hidden his sketch-book, he threw his cap high in air from sheer joy of springtime and freedom.

Out from the town he hurried, and soon was tramping through the forest that furnished the banks of the winding river Stour. All day long he revelled in the glory of the woods, and hour after hour he worked with his pencil, striving to put into his book the charming bits of landscape that greeted his eye on every side. One sketch comprised a bend in the river, with grassy meads beyond; another, an old vine-covered bridge, now fallen into disuse; a third merely pictured a broken tree lying across the sunlit path.

Occasionally he experienced a sharp twinge somewhere when he remembered that all this pleasure was stolen. "But then," he argued, "what difference does it make? Old Burroughs didn't know, and father will never find it out!"

He stifled these pricking thoughts as fast as they arose, not permitting them seriously to disturb his holiday. He whistled, he sang, he lay on his back and looked up at the sky through the chinks in the tender foliage. Sometimes he closed his eyes and listened, and the mysterious woodland sounds, mingled with the purling of the river, yielded him boundless enjoyment. When, however, the shadows of the trees fell at a certain angle, Tommy closed his sketch-book with a sigh and went swiftly homeward.

"I must get there at the usual time," he meditated, "else they'll ask me where I've been."

As he came in sight of the "Black Horse," the public inn of bygone times, where armored knights had claimed food and shelter, but which was now the comfortable residence of John Gainsborough, Tommy began to whistle airily.

Approaching nearer, he discovered that his father had come with pipe and chair to the front stoop, and was sitting with his face turned down the street, as though watching for somebody.

Tommy began to whistle louder, and as he turned in at the gate, his countenance was beaming with innocence.

He bounded up the steps with the intention of getting into the house as quickly as possible, but as his hand touched the latch a stentorian voice said,—

"Thomas!"

The boy stopped short, his eyes round with surprise, his lips still puckered for the whistling that had been so abruptly quelled.

"I called for you at school to-day."

"Called for me at school to-day," echoed Tommy, reddening in dismay.

"I did. I found that I must drive out to Squire Bagley's place, and I decided to take you along. It seems that you had already given Mr. Burroughs an excuse from me."

Tommy's fingers began to pick at his jacket, and he racked his brains for a story that would fit the occasion.

"Well, father, I thought—"

"Silence, if you please! I am terribly shocked to find that my son would deliberately write and act a lie. Such conduct deserves the severest punishment. Will you take your whipping before tea or after?"

"After," said Tommy promptly; and accepting this as a dismissal he vanished into the house.

The evening meal was not a joyous one for the culprit, owing to his foretaste of what was coming later. His brothers and sisters evidently knew nothing of his escapade, and chattered among themselves as usual; but his mother's eyes rested upon him from time to time with sorrow in their depths. Once a sob came into Tommy's throat, but he fiercely choked it back, scorning to weep even under such harrowing circumstances.

As the family rose from the table, Mr. Gainsborough, pointing to the stairway, said sternly,—

"To your own room, Thomas!"

Very slowly the boy obeyed, and when the upper door had closed upon him, Mrs. Gainsborough laid a detaining hand upon her husband's arm.

"Wait for a moment, John, and look at the child's work."

Mrs. Gainsborough, who was herself an accomplished painter of flowers, opened Tommy's sketch-book, and laid before her husband's eyes the record of the day's outlawry.

A whispered consultation followed, then Mr. Gainsborough ascended the stair with a heavy, portentous tread.

Tommy, sitting miserably on the side of his bed, heard the measured tramp, tramp along the corridor; and folding his arms he set his teeth grimly and waited for the worst.

Mr. Gainsborough entered the room and closed the door behind him.

"Thomas," he began in a relentless tone, "you have disgraced yourself and your family by your behavior to-day, but I have decided not to give you a whipping."

Tommy leaped from the bed with an exclamation of puzzled relief.

"Instead, my son, I shall take away all your pencils and drawing materials for a month, and shall see that you do not have access to any at school."

"Oh, father," howled Tommy despairingly, "I'd rather take the whipping—even two of 'em, if you'll give me back my things! Please whip me, father, as you said you would, and let me have my sketch-book!"

"At the end of a month, and not one day sooner."

Mr. Gainsborough kept his word, and throughout the following weeks Tommy's fingers fairly tingled for the touch of his beloved instruments. Pencils and paper were so costly at that time that it was useless for him to save his pennies in the hope of buying them for himself; and during the weary days of waiting, Tommy decided positively that his pen should never again perform dishonest tricks, plunging him into such trouble.

One midsummer morning, weeks after Tommy's pencils had been restored to him, Mrs. Gainsborough appeared at the corner of the garden, where the boy was busily digging worms for fish bait.

"Tommy," she inquired in a vexed tone, "have you been gathering my yellow pears?"

"No," returned he, pushing his hat back and looking up at the distressed lady.

Now Tommy was guilty of so many mischievous doings that when anything went wrong about the place he was always suspected of being in the plot somewhere, though sometimes he was truly innocent, as happened to be the case just now.

"No," he repeated, "I haven't touched a single one of the yellow pears. Honor bright!"

"Then some one else has," declared Mrs. Gainsborough. "For three days, since they have been ripening so beautifully, I have tried to find enough to fill a fancy basket for the dean; and although each evening I have seen ten or twelve that would be perfect in another day, I have gone the following morning to gather them, and have found only hard and green ones hanging. The other children know nothing about it, so I suppose some one has stolen the pears. It is too provoking!"

Mrs. Gainsborough turned away, and her son went on with his digging, giving no further thought to the missing fruit.

The next morning he awoke very early, so early that the great red sun was just peeping over the hill. He turned drowsily on his pillow and was preparing to launch into another delicious nap, when it occurred to him that sunrise was a capital time for the drawing of shadows.

Instantly he scrambled out of bed, and five minutes later was on his way through the orchard with his sketch-book under his arm.

Dew lay thickly upon the grass and leaves, and even the ruddy fruit hanging overhead sparkled brightly as the first rays of the sun shone upon its clinging drops.

"Now for the shadows," thought Tommy, glancing about the orchard. "I think I'll draw that clump of currant bushes, if I can get a good position."

He walked up and down several times, trying to find a place where his view would be unobstructed. This was no easy matter amid so many trees, but at length he found that by sitting inside the entrance of an old rustic summer-house he could command his model exactly.

A few feet at his left, and close beside the stone wall dividing the orchard from the public road, grew his mother's pear-tree, laden with ripe, rich fruit.

Tommy had opened his book, and with half-closed eyes and uplifted pencil was measuring the height of the currant bushes, when, to his surprise, a head suddenly appeared above the wall, at the very spot shaded by the pear-tree.

"A head suddenly appeared above the wall."

The stranger cast a quick, cautious glance about the premises, showing that his errand was no friendly one, then threw back his head and gazed greedily at the luscious pears that grew above him. As he stood thus, with the morning light falling brightly across his visage, Tommy saw that his features were strongly marked and prominent, his face seamed by deep and vicious lines.

The boy, accustomed to study the form and appearance of things, quickly comprehended the stranger's long nose, low brow, pointed chin, and hollow cheeks.

The man looked furtively about for the second time and sprang to the top of the wall. Quite unconscious that a spectator was eagerly watching from the covered structure near by, the intruder ascended boldly into the pear-tree and proceeded to fill his pockets and hat with the juicy fruit.

Never a sound came from the summer-house, but before the rogue had completed his stolen harvest, Tommy's cunning pencil had drawn the robber's portrait, with the narrowed eyes, leering lips, unkempt hair, and rakish hat, exactly as they had impressed him at the moment when the vagabond stood gazing aloft at the fruit overhead. Tommy finished the sketch with a few hasty strokes, then closed his book and burst suddenly from the summer-house, shouting "Wow, wow!" at the top of his voice.

Down leaped the man to the earth, and scaling the wall at a bound, he fled, dropping many of the pears as he ran.

Tommy's unearthly shrieks had roused the household, and he hurriedly explained to his mother the cause of her daily vanishing pears, displaying his sketch as proof of his argument.

An hour later Mr. Gainsborough opened Tommy's book before the squire, pointed to the drawing upon the last page, and related the story of the boy's early morning experience.

The squire immediately recognized the picture as of a ne'er-do-weel who had been loitering about Sudbury for some time, and who had more than once been convicted of petty thieving.

"I'll send for him," declared the magistrate; and that very afternoon the offender was brought in.

Mr. Gainsborough accused him of invading his orchard and attempting to carry away his fruit; but the culprit stoutly denied all knowledge of the episode.

Quietly the squire opened Tommy's book, and held it before the defendant's astonished gaze.

He uttered a baffled whine, then, with a laugh that was like a snarl, he admitted his guilt of the morning, and also confessed to having robbed the pear-tree upon three previous occasions.

"My man," announced the squire sternly, "I shall let you go free this time upon your promise of good behavior, but if you ever repeat the offence I'll give you a sentence of confinement on bread and water. There is plenty of honest employment to be had in Sudbury, and I advise you to go to work and live as a decent citizen."

The man shambled out, and from that day forth was seen no more about the village.

Mr. Gainsborough, concluding from the day's developments that he could justly afford to encourage this play-work of Tommy's, which was beginning to take on a shade of importance, bought a large new sketch-book and presented it to the boy.

Tommy turned five somersaults to express the warmth of his gratitude; but before despatching the old book to its future home on the closet shelf, he opened it and, with his bravest flourishes, wrote beneath the sketch on the final page,—

"Tom Pear-tree's Portrait."

When years had gone by and Thomas Gainsborough had arrived at manhood, he astonished all England by his remarkable paintings. His pictures of woods and lanes, fields and shining water, captivated the country folk by presenting so perfectly the scenes before their doors; and the city dwellers were awakened by his colors to the charms of the wide, sweet country they had forgotten.

These landscape studies set Thomas Gainsborough high in the world of art, but when at length he turned his cunning brush to the task of painting portraits, his fame was heralded from city to province. He began by making likenesses of his wife and daughters, and when these were exhibited at the Royal Academy, people exclaimed at the skill and dignity of the work. Even King George III., who chanced to visit the gallery on one of these occasions, paused before Gainsborough's canvas, and clasped his hands in admiration.

"Summon this painter to the palace," commanded he, "and let him paint his sovereign and his queen."

This order from the king made Gainsborough's portraits the fashion at court, and straightway all the ladies of rank and beauty came to him, entreating him to paint their pictures.

His fortune and reputation, by these well-earned favors, rose far beyond anything he had expected, and if ever a man was truly happy in his life and work, that man was Thomas Gainsborough.

He was so generous, so good-humored, so lovable in his old-time frankness, that people who sought his acquaintance because he was a famous artist quickly forgot his amazing skill in the pleasure of his ever-boyish company.

It was supposed that he had reached the climax of his art when he exhibited a picture of the Duchess of Devonshire, for this set Great Britain agog with praise and wonder; but Thomas Gainsborough was destined to climb yet one step higher in the ladder of public esteem, and the work that crowned his success and brought the world to his feet was a childish portrait entitled "Blue Boy." This was hung on the wall of the Royal Academy, and when the spectators came surging through the gallery, chattering amiably of this canvas and that, they halted speechless before the boy with the thoughtful eyes, the fresh brown skin, and the pale-blue dress. The lad was so young, so sweet, so lifelike in his quiet pose, that not a word was uttered by the critics standing by. One by one they slipped away, aware that Thomas Gainsborough had not attained the goal of his greatness by pictures of kings, queens, court beauties, and mighty soldiers, but by the youthful, innocent portrait entitled simply "Blue Boy."

---

"No, no, Hans, you are too loud, and Frieda goes too fast! Just listen to Otto's trumpet and watch my cane, all of you, and then you'll be right."

The tone was an emphatic one, and the speaker pounded sharply on the floor with his walking stick.

He was a small boy, whose flaxen hair hung straight and thick on either side of his face. He was panting with excitement, his eyes were sparkling, his lips were set.

Before him, on the floor, sat six boys and girls in a semi-circle, attending earnestly to his commands. One boy possessed a toy horn; two others, mouth organs; a fourth, a chubby girl, had dropped a tin fife in sheer fright; and the fifth and sixth clung to drum and dinner-bell respectively.

"This time," went on the conductor sternly, "I want you to begin when I bring my cane down. Now watch! One, two, three, four,—one!"

As the big baton descended with the leader's vehement "one," a deafening uproar burst from the obedient orchestra.

"Keep on, keep on! You're going it now! Slower, Frieda! One, two, three, four!"

The director swung his cane vigorously, shouting his orders above the strains of the lusty symphony. A few measures were bravely rendered, when the conductor suddenly threw down his stick with a look of extreme exasperation.

"Peter," he said quietly, in the tone of a teacher sorely tried but patient, "please don't jingle the bell. Take the clapper in your hand, and tap it when I say 'one' and 'three.' Like this!" and seizing the bell, he illustrated his meaning, compelling the fat offender to perform the feat to his satisfaction before going on with the rehearsal. When the bell-ringer had been sufficiently drilled, the director once again took up his baton and ordered a fresh beginning.

They were playing in good earnest, for this imperious conductor desired something far above the discordant blasts that are usually obtained from musical toys. Weeks before he had assigned to each playmate a certain instrument, teaching him in private to draw real melody from it; and to-day he had assembled the six performers in his bedroom, introducing them to the delight of joining together in a familiar musical theme.

To be sure, the toys were shrill and piping, the players often faulty and careless, but after an hour's persistent and perspiring labor on the part of all concerned, the Duke's Military March rang through the house in creditable time and tune.

While the music continued with true martial spirit, the door opened softly, and a plump, fair girl of sixteen peeped into the room. Perceiving the occupation of the children, she smiled brightly and slipped away. A moment later another form appeared upon the threshold, that of an elderly, dignified man. His hair was white, his eyes were protected by huge gold spectacles, his shoulders were slightly bent; but a close observer would have readily detected a resemblance between the handsome old gentleman and the leader of the orchestra. One bore the markings of age, the other the dimples of childhood; but they plainly displayed a kindred will, energy, and intelligence, although one was seventy and the other but seven.

Mr. Händel was the town surgeon of Halle, appointed by the Duke of Sächse, and the flaxen-haired boy was the idolized child of his declining years.

At first sight of the juvenile orchestra the visitor smiled as indulgently as had the girl before him, entering the chamber unobserved, and seating himself in a distant corner where he could watch the highly interesting performance. But he turned quickly grave when his eye fell upon the small director, who was bending anxiously forward, his whole being absorbed in the sounds that issued from the toys at signal of his cane. The flush that burned the leader's cheek, the intensity of his glance, and the strained alertness of his lithe young body, seemed a forbidding vision to the old gentleman, for his face clouded and he shook his head in increasing disapproval.

Presently the concert ended, the children scrambled noisily to their feet, and the conductor leaned upon his cane, regarding them with the serene composure of a man who has wrought successfully and is modestly proud of the fact.

"We must go home, Georg," said Peter, exchanging his bell for his cap.

"I'm going to run, 'cause I'm so dretful hungry," announced Frieda, disappearing in quest of curds and seed cakes.

"You may all go now," consented the director affably, "but," raising a commanding finger, "we will practise again at seven o'clock to-morrow morning, and whoever is one minute late won't be invited to my party in the afternoon."

"Oh, Georg," wailed Frieda, recalled from the corridor by this edict, "must I come at seven, whether I've had any breakfast or not?"

The leader bowed.

"Whether you have had any breakfast or not," he rejoined firmly.

The children trooped down the stairs, leaving their chief to gather up the toys and place them carefully upon the table.

He was about to leave the room when, for the first time, he discovered that he was not alone.

"Father!" he exclaimed, bounding gladly to the old man's side, and laying one hand affectionately upon his shoulder. "Did you hear us play? Didn't we do well? If only we had a fiddle we could make much better music. Oh, father, it is such fun—why—what's the matter, father? I sharpened your pens and aired your dressing-gown."

The boy's hilarious comments ceased as he became aware of his father's darkened expression, and he hastened to allay the doubts that he supposed to be the cause of this unlooked-for displeasure.

"I know, Georg, that you sharpened the pens, and I believe you when you tell me that you aired the dressing-gown, but I shall give you a new duty to-day. See that you perform it promptly!"

Georg listened in wonder, for never before had his father addressed him with such hardness of manner, and instinctively the boy drew a pace backward.

"A new—duty?" he stammered.

"I want you to take those musical toys and throw them into the pond, or give them to some one who never comes into this house."

Georg was dumfounded.

"Throw them away—my trumpet, my fife, my—"

Breathless with consternation the boy rushed to the table and gathered his treasures protectingly in his arms.

"These—I must—keep," he asserted chokingly, eying his father from the breastworks of drum and bell.

For answer Mr. Händel pointed to the door, and Georg, reading naught but doom in that significant gesture, dropped his toys with a crash and clasped his father's arm beseechingly.

"Father, don't make me throw them in the pond! Tell me why it is wrong for me to have them; please, father, tell me!"

The old gentleman's face expressed both resolution and kindness.

"Listen, Georg. When I gave you those toys at Christmas time, I expected you to amuse yourself with them as other children do, in turn with balls, kites, and sleds. But this you have failed to do, and every play-hour since that time you have given to these musical toys. Now, Georg, I mean to give you a thorough education, so that when you are a man you may become a jurist, capable of following a respectable career and earning a snug fortune. Ever since you were born I have planned and saved for this purpose, and I cannot have my arrangements upset by these silly mouth organs. Tut, tut!" as the boy endeavored to speak, "no words, my son, over this matter! If I allow you to keep these things and play with them, day in and day out, as you have been doing, you will grow into a musician, and then where will my jurist be? No, no, it is not to be thought of. When I came in to-day, you were so deep in the Duke's March that you did not know that I was near. No, boy, you cannot have them any longer. I would have taken them away before, had I realized that you were so set upon them."

"Please, father—" whispered Georg, quaking, but persistent.

"You must either throw them away or give them away to-day. You shall have an hour to decide which you wish to do, and at the end of it, I shall expect the matter to be settled for all time. Also, Georg, I wish you to see no more of four of those children who were here to-day. Frieda and Peter seemed dull enough, but the others were too musical by far to be fit companions for you. You may tell them that I forbid them the house from to-day."

At this stroke of fate, Georg threw himself at full length on the floor, sobbing tempestuously. His father departed without further parley, and the boy was left alone to battle with his disappointment.

As the hour drew to a close, he mastered his emotion as well as he was able, washed from his face the traces of weeping, and hurried out to call a meeting of his orchestra by the pond-side.

He would not confess to his mates that he was grieved with the message he had for them, but delivered it with an air of mannish bravado.

"I shan't have an orchestra any more, and I have brought you all of my instruments. I'll give you each the one you've been using, so you can play hereafter. You needn't come to-morrow to rehearse, for I can't lead any longer."

"No orchestra! You won't lead!" chorused the musicians blankly, as they received the cherished toys into their hands.

"Never again," affirmed Georg loftily, but he must needs set his teeth hard upon his lower lip, lest its trembling should betray his stinging regret.

"You see," he explained with the easy patronage of a captain who has led his troops to victory, but who is about to be promoted out of their midst, "it is not as though I were to be a musician when I grow up. It is all well enough for you fellows to play on these things every day, but I really ought not to waste my time with them, for," importantly, "when I am a man, I am going to be a jurist."

"A what?" demanded his hearers in one breath, much impressed by the high-sounding title.

"A jurist," Georg repeated, folding his arms, much gratified at the effect his announcement had produced.

"What does a—a jurist do?" inquired Frieda, feminine curiosity conquering her awe.

"Oh," replied Georg easily, "a jurist, Frieda, writes down in a book everything that people ought to do, and when they don't do just as he has written, he cuts off their heads."

"Ach!"

"Their heads?"

"You will learn to cut them off?"

Georg bowed.

"Now you understand why I must give up the orchestra. If you decide to keep on without me, perhaps, sometime—"

He was turning away with a kingly wave of the hand, his last sentence unfinished, when a question from Peter recalled him to the second and most distressing part of his mission.

"You'll have your party to-morrow afternoon? We needn't play on things, you know."

The blood mounted to Georg's forehead, and his fingers twitched uncomfortably; but he managed to speak so boldly that his listeners were quite unaware of his struggle.

"I am glad you mentioned the party, Peter, for I had nearly forgotten it. No, I won't have any party, and I must tell you—at least, father says—that—that Hans and Otto and Gretchen and Leopold must not come to my house any more. Of course," he added hastily, seeking to drown the gasps of his troopers, "it isn't that you're not good enough and nice enough for me to play with, but father says that you four are very musical, and you might make me musical too; but Frieda and Peter can come, for they are dull."

"I hate your old tunes and notes, anyway," protested Peter, much injured; but Frieda cut him short with the excited proposal,—

"Let's have your party for Peter and me and you, to-morrow!"

"Have your party! Have your party!" sneered Otto; and Hans informed Georg in biting tones that he wouldn't forget this when his birthday came next month.

Here Georg visibly weakened, for he remembered that Hans was expecting either a violin or a flute upon that occasion, and he nearly lost his studied indifference with the recollection. He was obliged to face about, to hide the sudden teardrops that glistened on his cheeks; and, marching proudly toward his father's pasture, with head high in air, and back steadily kept toward his forsaken band, he called out,—

"I'm not mad at you, but you can be mad at me if you like. I won't have a party to-morrow for Frieda and Peter, 'cause I like Hans and Otto better than I do them, 'cause they know how to keep time when I beat."

He had reached the pasture with the last word of parting, and flinging himself over the bars, he fled across the green as though twenty scouts of the enemy were close upon his heels. The mask that he had worn to conceal his heartburning had fallen, and he was crying bitterly as he ran.

Old Kappelstahr, Georg's special pet since the days when she was a sportive calf, stood mildly chewing her cud near the inner fence. As her master dashed among the kine in evident agitation, the heifer turned to look after him, apparently surprised that he had passed her by without a word of greeting.

Georg, glancing backward, happened to catch that look of gentle interest. He halted irresolutely, then, rushing to her side and throwing his arms about her neck, the dejected jurist sobbed out his woe upon her warm brown shoulder.

During the succeeding days and weeks, Georg felt as lonely as a shipwrecked mariner cast upon a deserted island of the sea. Instinctively, when lessons were done, he reached out for amusement to the musical toys that were his no longer. Sometimes he heard sounds arising from the pond-side, where his forbidden orchestra rehearsed under Otto's direction. That he might neither make music nor mingle with those who did, filled him with blank dismay; and hour by hour he wandered about the house and garden, unable to attach himself to other interests or games. His father required him to make an industrious use of his school hours, even adding to the regular course certain studies that he deemed useful to one preparing for a serious profession.

The old gentleman was sorry indeed when he saw how the absence of the musical toys and companions affected Georg, and he even sought to modify the discipline by presenting to the boy a complete set of carpenter's tools.

Georg thanked him for the gift, but what was the old gentleman's surprise, a week later, upon seeing the chest in his son's room, still unopened, with every tool in place, and across the wooden lid a series of black and white keys painted, in imitation of a harpsichord.

Mr. Händel frowned, but made no reference to the matter before Georg.

Mrs. Händel believed that her husband was right at all times, and would not have reversed his decision regarding the musical affair, if she could; but her sister Anna, the plump fair girl who had peeped in upon the last rehearsal of the orchestra in Georg's room, sympathized warmly with the boy, and sought to console him in every way possible.

Anna was barely sixteen, herself scarcely more than a child, blue-eyed, yellow-haired, and a member of the Händel household. Her sweet temper and merry heart had long before won Georg's devotion, and in his present trial no one was admitted to his confidence but this youthful aunt.

Never a word of disrespect or rebellion did Anna utter against Mr. Händel, for she believed implicitly in a child's obedience to his parents; but, being of a musical temperament herself, she entered into the boy's trouble as though she, too, were under the ban. In a certain sense she was, there being no musical instrument in the house, and often she felt stirred by the same impulse that wrought so constantly upon her nephew.

"Never mind, Georg," she would say, "let Hans and Frieda have the mouth organ and the drum. Just you attend to your school, and when your father sees that you mean to study hard and carry out his wishes, he will give them back to you."

But weeks dragged wearily by, and, despite Georg's diligence at school, Mr. Händel did not relent. Frieda and Peter came occasionally, but they had never been Georg's chosen comrades, and he joined their games mechanically, plainly relieved when they took their departure. He longed unceasingly for Otto, who was clever with the trumpet, and for Hans, who was now the possessor of a violin.

He became restless and dissatisfied, and his mother despaired of a child who went about with such a sober face.

He never gave voice to the discontent that surged in his breast, for parental authority was strict in the Händel household, and he would have been sharply punished for outspoken protest. But he did not recover from his disappointment, as his father had so reasonably expected; a slight paleness crept over his plump cheeks, his lively spirit was tinged with melancholy, and from his compressed lips was seldom heard his former ringing laugh.

Every one in the house noticed the change, but all except Anna thought the mood would presently pass away if properly ignored, and no mention was made in his hearing of the subject that lay nearest his heart. The girl, however, realized that Georg was seriously unhappy, and right heartily did she try to divert him from his consuming desire.

One November afternoon, as Georg sat studying before the sitting-room fire with his mother, who had fallen asleep over her knitting, his attention was attracted by a pebble being thrown against the window. Raising his eyes, he beheld his aunt beckoning to him from the garden. Down went the book and out went the boy.

"What is it, Aunt Anna?"

For answer, the girl caught him about the neck and whirled him madly up and down the gravelled path.

"It's a secret, Georg, the best and biggest secret in the whole world. Nobody is to know it but you and me, and it is so lovely that I can't keep from spinning like a top!"

"Wait! Stop! Let loose!" and the boy broke from her clasp, half-strangled by the joyful energy of her arm. "What is the secret? Hurry and tell!"

The girl stood smiling and speechless, unable to find words to frame her tidings. Then glancing about to assure herself that no one was near, she bent quickly and whispered,—

"You remember, Georg, that poor Granny Wegler died last week. Well, her daughter, Mrs. Friesland, who came from Munich to take care of her, called here to-day to tell me—what do you suppose?"

"I don't know."

"She said that she had found a note written by Granny, saying that when she died, she wanted to leave her clavichord to me. Just think of it, Georg, I am to have that dear, beautiful little clavichord that stood in Granny's parlor, and you and I can play on it whenever we please!"

Georg's face went from red to white and back to red again with this stupendous news. Afraid that a shout would serve to recall him to house and book, he sought to express his delight by rolling over and over in the crackling brown grass and pulling up the dead blades by handfuls.

Suddenly, however, he ceased his tumbling about, and sat up, his hair filled with bits of leaves and grass.

"Ought I to play on it, Aunt Anna? Will father care?"

Georg's voice shook with apprehension, but the girl hastened to reassure him.

"When your father made you give away the toys, he never said a word about clavichords. It can't be wrong to play on it when you never have been forbidden."

Anna's idea of obedience was very strict, and in the present case she was wholly sincere, never doubting for an instant that they were about to proceed in the straight path of duty.

"Oh, no," murmured the boy, much relieved, "he didn't mention clavichords, I'm sure."

"Now this is to be a secret of yours and mine, and while the others are gone to the Kirmess to-morrow, I shall have the darling brought over and carried up to the garret."

"Ho, ho! Hurrah for our secret! Hurrah! hurrah!"

When, next day, Georg saw the clavichord borne to the shadowy chamber under the eaves and set up in all its thrilling reality against the warm brick chimney, he pressed both hands over his mouth in the fear that his cries of exultation might reach his father's ears in town.

When the carriers were gone, he approached the instrument timidly, and only after Anna had played several tunes, could he be induced to touch its yellowed keys. But when he had once overcome the awe that filled him at sight of his heart's desire, he clung to it as a thing of life, passing every hour thereafter that he could snatch from his school studies, in the company of this glorious toy. In the beginning, Anna taught him the few rudiments of musical art that lay within her ken, but before many weeks had passed, the pupil turned teacher, so far outstripping his aunt that he was able to give her many helpful suggestions.

That Georg speedily recovered his vaulting spirits, every one remarked; but none guessed the reason. The good surgeon supposed that the boy's regret for his lost playthings and companions was forgotten, and he smiled to see his son as noisy and mischief-loving as before the September episode.

The conspirators were for a time in terror of discovery, but the tones of the clavichord were so thin and muffled that their tinkling would never disturb a drowsy garret mouse, much less penetrate the oaken floors to the chambers under foot. No one but Georg's mother ever visited the attic region, and during this important season, she chanced to be afflicted with acute rheumatic pain that prevented her climbing the steep stair leading to the treasure-house.

The winter was a long one and cold, but Anna and Georg, in their high retreat, were as happy and comfortable as meadow-larks. Trunks, chests, old clothing, and discarded furniture abounded there; bunches of dried herbs were strung to the cross-beams, and cobwebs draped the outlying nooks; but the great chimney emitted a cosy warmth, and the clavichord provided unceasing entertainment.

"The clavichord provided unceasing entertainment."

As time went by, Anna's interest waned considerably, owing to the succeeding preparations of Christmas gifts, March birthday festivities, and spring finery; but when months had rolled away and summer suns were once more ripening the fruit and coloring the flowers, Georg was as intently absorbed in the clavichord as on the day of its first appearance.

One June morning he was starting for a day's visit with some cousins who lived on the most fashionable street in Halle. He was attired for the occasion in his best suit of shining black satin. A deep collar of Mechlin lace, a pair of gleaming silver shoe-buckles, and a silver cord wound around his broad black beaver filled him with satisfaction as he emerged from the house door.

At this juncture Mr. Händel drove into the gravelled plaza lying between stable and street, and Georg observed with surprise that the carriage was festooned with yellow streamers, that Mummer, the staid mare, was groomed until she shone, and tricked out in the yellow harness and tassels reserved for state occasions.

"Where are you going, father?" called Georg.

"To Weisenfels. The duke sent for me this morning. He wishes a report of the state of health in Halle."

"Oh, father, please take me with you! I've never seen the court, and I want to go so much!"

"Not this time, Georg. I have business to attend to, and I cannot look after you."

"You needn't look after me," insisted the lad, laying his hand upon the door of the slowly moving vehicle. "I'll be good and do everything you say, and Christian will take care of me. Please, father, take me!"

"No, no! Some other time I'll take you, but this time I shall be too busy. Get up, Mummer!"

With the touch of the whip, the ancient mare broke into a gentle dogtrot, the only gait more swift than a walk in which she ever indulged.

Georg saw the carriage roll through the gates and take the road toward Weisenfels.

To go to the duke's court was something that he had long desired, and this seemed a wholly favorable time for the undertaking. Had his father's denial been decisive, Georg would have accepted it with the best grace he could muster, and gone on about his visit; but he had seen that the surgeon was merely preoccupied, refusing the petition absently in order that his reflections should not be disturbed, rather than that he cared to forbid the journey.

"If he only knew how much I wanted to go, he would have said 'yes,'" thought Georg. "Father nearly always lets me do things when I ask him. He really didn't hear what I said,—didn't hear inside him, I mean,—or he would have taken me. I'll go! I'll go anyway, and when I get there father will be sure to let me stay."

Fired with this determination, Georg set off, running nimbly behind the carriage, taking pains all the while to keep out of the surgeon's sight.

Although Mummer was not very fleet as horses go, she jogged steadily along, and the boy, following close behind the carriage, began to wonder why she never stopped to catch her breath and cool herself. Up and down hill, over bridges, through strips of forest, went horse, carriage, and boy; and, as the sun blazed down, and the road grew dusty to choking, the last one of the procession became so hot and breathless that he feared he must stop or die.

At twelve o'clock the carriage drew up before a roadside inn; and when the hostler came to take charge of Mummer, Mr. Händel opened the door and stepped out upon the flower-bordered driveway.

The flash of a silver hat-cord seemed to twinkle before his eyes, and seized with a sharp suspicion, the old gentleman strode quickly round to the back of the carriage only to see a pair of small black legs disappearing under the vehicle.

"Georg!" he ejaculated. "Come out, instantly! What are you doing here?"

A dusty, sheepish boy crawled slowly into sight, murmuring confusedly as he rose,—

"I knew you'd let me go if you thought about it, so I came—"

Dizzy from heat and fatigue, Georg clutched the wheel to keep himself from falling; and the surgeon took him anxiously by the shoulder.

"You foolish boy! What possessed you to undertake such a tramp! I didn't care particularly if you came. Here, let's go into the inn and get dinner! You will feel better when you have had warm food and time to rest. I'll send a messenger back to your mother, so she will know that you have come with me. You foolish child!"

The evening was spent in the ducal palace, whither the surgeon had been summoned with his professional report; and the novel sights and sounds proved so exciting to Georg that long after he was tucked into his cot he lay wide awake, thinking of all that he had enjoyed. When sleep did finally overtake him, he dreamed of the gayly uniformed guards stationed inside and outside the palace, of the massive corridors, rich with works of art, and the vast assembly room where the duke had held an audience, while he himself had looked down from an upper gallery upon the throngs of men and women, the flowers, the banners, and listened to the music wafted from the musicians' balcony opposite.

Christian Händel, a nephew of Georg's, although more than twice the boy's age, was a member of the duke's train, and he had piloted the small visitor about the place, pointing out to him the things that would prove of especial interest. He had likewise introduced his young relative to the musicians, and they, attracted by the boy's straightforward manner and intelligent replies, cordially received him among them.

Morning came before Georg realized that he had been asleep, and with it, Christian, who shook him awake.

"Dress yourself quickly, Georg, for the duke goes to church this morning, and when he attends, nobody else in the house is permitted to stay away."

Christian conducted Georg to the organ-loft, that he might better see the sumptuous chapel and the duke with his richly apparelled retinue passing in for service.

The white-haired organist, whom Georg had met the night before, greeted him pleasantly; and Christian left him in care of the aged musician, while he hurried down to take his place among the crimson-clad retainers.

When, an hour later, the duke sat in his apartment at breakfast, the sound of the organ fell upon his ear. Himself a passionate lover of music, he could readily distinguish the touch of the various players at court; but this soft and unfamiliar strain caused him to bend forward with a puzzled look. Gradually the music grew more distinct, and soon the palace resounded with a strong and stately melody.

"Who is at the organ?" the duke demanded suddenly, glancing inquiringly at one of his attendants.

"It is the little Händel from Halle, your grace," replied Christian.

"A relative of yours?"

The young man blushed, for he was unwilling to confess to an eight-year-old uncle; but he told the truth and satisfied his pride by explaining distinctly,—

"He is my grandfather's youngest son."

"Bring him hither, and his father also."

Christian disappeared, and presently Mr. Händel entered by one door, just before his son and grandson appeared on the threshold of the other.

The duke motioned the old gentleman to a distant corner, and beckoned the boy to approach.

Georg, bereft of Christian's support, and unaware of his father's presence, became so frightened that his breath almost failed as he advanced, and he wondered wildly if the trembling of his knees could be detected by the company. He carried his black beaver on his arm, as he had seen the courtiers do, and when he came within a few feet of the ducal chair, he bowed with a curious little bob that set the whole room laughing.

"Silence!" commanded the duke sternly; then turning, he kindly asked his small auditor what his name might be.

"Georg Friedrich Händel," replied the boy tremulously, but with the sound of his own voice his terror dissolved, and he stood before the Duke of Sächse with respectful composure.

"When did you learn to play the organ, my manikin?"

"This morning, your grace."

"This morning!" echoed the duke, astounded. "Can it be true that you have never tried the instrument before to-day?"

"Well, you see, we have no organ at home," returned Georg apologetically.

The duke studied him for a moment, as though seeking for traces of falsehood, but Georg's utter simplicity was strangely convincing.

Quietly the duke put his next question.

"Upon what instruments have you played before?"

"Last winter and this summer I have played every day on my aunt's clavichord, your grace."

Here a loud gasp was heard from a distant corner, but the duke frowned for silence.

"And what before the clavichord, my boy?"

"A mouth organ, a tin trumpet, a fife, a drum, and a dinner-bell, your grace."

A dozen irrepressible titters burst from the attendants, but the duke grew very grave.

"And that is all, lad?"

"All, your grace."

"No lessons?"

"No—except when Aunt Anna and I taught each other. But you mustn't tell father about the clavichord, your grace, because it is a secret, and father told me to give away my own instruments, and Aunt Anna wouldn't like to give away her clavichord, so please don't let him know about it."

"I am afraid that he knows already," said the duke, smiling; and at his signal, the Halle surgeon emerged from his corner, pale with amazement.

Georg was so confounded at sight of his parent, that, unable to meet his expected look of condemnation, he buried his face in the folds of the duke's breakfast cloth.

"I am sorry, Mr. Händel," said the duke, "that I betrayed the child's secret. Had I known there was anything confidential in the interview, I should have held it in private. But now that the mischief is done, will you tell me why you oppose the musical study that Georg desires?"

"Merely, your grace, because he neglects his school for music when I allow it. I am a music-lover myself, but I wish to educate my son for a jurist, and I cannot have the plan interfered with, even by music."

"Let me suggest, then, that you allow the music lessons and compel the school lessons, taking away the instrument if he fails at school; and when he is old enough and wise enough to be a jurist, he will be capable of choosing for himself the work of his life."

"I thank you, your grace! The advice is fair and judicious, and I shall be happy to act upon it. If I have made a mistake, it was out of concern for the child's best good, your grace."

"An error on the safe side, Mr. Händel. A-ha, my small minstrel, do you hear how your father and I have arranged matters?"

Georg had not fully understood the conversation, but he gathered that the duke had somehow persuaded the surgeon to allow his little son to play upon the clavichord as much as he wished, if he were faithful at school.

"Does the prospect please you?" asked the duke, his eyes twinkling.

"It does, it does!" cried Georg, his face radiant. "I am obliged to your grace, and I am sure that you are almost as good and fine a person as my Aunt Anna."

One night, in London, a concert was given at a certain music-hall, and the money earned from the sale of tickets was to be used to relieve the poor children of the city.

Such a throng of people crowded into the hall that every seat was promptly filled, and the door-keepers were obliged to turn away many who desired to attend.

King George II. appeared in the royal box, and when he had been respectfully saluted by the people, the hall grew still. The stage was filled with singers, and soon the room resounded with the thrilling notes of a new piece called "The Messiah."

The people had expected to be only pleasantly entertained, but as one strain followed another, they bent forward entranced. Such harmonies they had never listened to before, and the people in the hall were moved to the point of tears. At length the sounds grew so impressive that the king could contain himself no longer, but leaped to his feet. Instantly the people, following the lead of their sovereign, rose impulsively in their places, and so standing, they waited until the glorious chorus was ended.

Throughout the performance, a fine old gentleman sat quietly on the stage near the singers, listening intently. His face wore a look of noble earnestness, and he did not smile until the last note died away, and from every part of the house voices cried,—

"Händel! Händel!"

For a moment he did not respond to their calls, but as the hall fell into a tumult, and the shout increased to a deafening roar, the white-haired gentleman rose and quietly bowed.

This did not satisfy the crowd, and from above, below, from right and from left, excited men and women demanded that he should play for them.

The old gentleman bowed again, but finding that the audience would not depart until he had yielded to its desire, he turned toward the massive organ at his right.

Before he had taken a step, one of the singers hurried to his side, laid a hand upon his arm, and conducted him slowly to the organ-bench. Then it was that any stranger would have learned what all London understood,—that the courtly old gentleman was blind.

At the first rich chord from the organ, a hush fell upon the room, and when the silvery-haired musician finished, and rose to his feet with another stately bow, the people silently filed out, too stirred by the grandeur of his music for ordinary speech.

That night, in the city of London, hundreds of suffering and friendless children were gathered into places of refuge, and were fed, warmed, and clothed with the money earned by the genius and loving-kindness of Georg Friedrich Händel.

---

Up to London, one May morning, came Samuel Coleridge, and as the coach rattled over the pavements, and the roar and tumult of the city filled his ears, the boy clutched his uncle's arm with delight. Never before in all his ten years had he journeyed beyond the quaint country village where he was born, and the dun clouds of city smoke caused him to look expectantly about for rain.

His uncle laughed and patted the boy's arm good-naturedly. "Never mind," he said; "these crowded streets will soon become as homelike to you as one of your Devonshire fields."

Mr. Bowdon was right, and at the end of a week Samuel could go alone about the quarter of the city where his uncle resided, and his ears grew so accustomed to the mighty din that he quite forgot there was any noise to hear.

Samuel was the youngest of thirteen children. His mother was a widow, and gradually she had become too poor to provide food and shelter for so great a family. To be sure, the oldest brothers and sisters aided her as best they could, but times were hard, money was scarce at best, and when Uncle Bowdon proposed to undertake the care and education of Samuel his offer was thankfully accepted. It was planned that the boy should visit at his uncle's house for several weeks, and that later in the summer he should enter the famous charity school known as Christ's Hospital. Many families sought to send their sons to this school, but only those pupils were admitted who were too poor to pay for their education.

Samuel was tall for his age, and very dark. He was attractive without being handsome, for his striking look of intelligence, his slight, straight figure and ready laughter, earned for him the frankest approval of friends and strangers too.

Mr. Bowdon was exceedingly proud of him, and often took him to his club, that his friends might become acquainted with his young guest. Also Mr. Bowdon planned frequent excursions about the city, so that his nephew might enjoy the notable sights of London. These were indeed gala days for Samuel, and when the time came for him to go to school he could scarcely believe that ten weeks had flown since he had come up by the coach from his country home. It is doubtful whether Mr. Bowdon would have been willing to part with the lad even after so long a visit, but his business just at this time compelled him to take a long journey to the East Indies, and he desired to see the boy safely established before departing from London.

Accordingly, one fine July afternoon, uncle and nephew arrived at the great school in Newgate Street, through whose high iron gate they were admitted by a boy wearing a queer costume of blue and yellow. Samuel had no eyes for the stately buildings grouped about the enclosure, for across the shaded central grass-plot marched a veritable army of boys, walking four abreast with military precision. Like the page at the gate, they wore long blue coats reaching nearly to the ankle and trimly girdled with red, bright yellow stockings, low buckled shoes and neckbands of snowy whiteness. Oddly enough, their heads were bare, and Samuel supposed that they had left their caps behind, though he learned later that the "king's boys," as these were called, never wore head coverings of any description, but went serenely abroad in all weathers, guiltless of beaver, helmet, or turban.

On they came, more boys and more boys, until Samuel grew fairly dizzy with watching the steadily moving column.

"What is the occasion?" inquired Mr. Bowdon of the gatekeeper.

"The lord mayor is visiting the school to-day, sir, and the scholars are going now to hear his address."

When the gayly apparelled procession had gone in, the steward of the school, a young man in russet gown, came to greet the strangers and to show them about the place. He conducted them through the twelve dormitories, where rows of narrow white beds stood side by side down either wall; to the dining-hall with its long tables, where all the students sat down at once; and to the office of the registrar, a spectacled old gentleman, who took down a great book and gravely wrote upon one of its yellowish pages,—

"Samuel Taylor Coleridge, aged ten; born at Ottery St. Mary, Devonshire, October, 1772. Regularly entered at Christ's Hospital, July 18, 1782."

Then Mr. Bowdon took his departure, for he was to leave the city at nightfall. Samuel accompanied him to the gate, where he received his uncle's affectionate farewells, then peering wistfully through the iron palings, he watched the portly figure move slowly down Newgate Street, until it was lost to view in the passing crowds.

With the last glimpse of Mr. Bowdon, Samuel was seized with a sudden panic of fear and loneliness, for never before had he been out of the sight of kindred faces, nor out of the sound of kindred voices. Even the page had left the gate, and Samuel clung to the palings in strange dismay. His attention was arrested by the doors of the lecture-hall being thrown open and the blue and yellow procession reappearing, headed by the lord mayor of London and a company of white-wigged, black-gowned masters and tutors. The gate swung back, the lord mayor received a military salute from the boys, and passed out to his waiting carriage, and at sound of a clanging bell the procession turned and wound its way to the dining-hall, leaving the campus deserted except for the presence of one young stranger.

"I wonder if I am to go in, or if I am to have any supper at all," queried the boy, looking anxiously about, as he suddenly awakened to the fact that he was fearfully hungry. "Nobody knows that I am here but the steward and the old man with the book."

His doubts were relieved by the appearance of the brown-robed steward, who beckoned to him from the entrance of the dining-hall.

Samuel sped to his side, and was ushered into the vast apartment where the pupils sat at dinner. Quiet reigned here, broken only by a subdued conversation at the masters' table, and the voice of a tutor who from a desk at the upper end of the room read a Latin oration for the entertainment of those present.

Samuel was conducted to a vacant seat at one of the long tables, where a wooden bowl of soup and a slice of bread awaited him. These he quickly despatched, and turning to the boy on his right, was about to inquire modestly how he should get a fresh supply, when his neighbor hastily pressed his finger to his lips, as a sign that speech was forbidden. Samuel was surprised at this injunction, especially as he was still hungry, and glancing about the board, he discovered that every other bowl was as empty as his own, and that no single crumb of bread was to be seen.

No one addressed him, but he was aware that numerous pairs of eyes were fixed curiously upon him. He shrank from this open scrutiny, although the boys at his table were all near his own age; and reddening, he gazed persistently at his bowl.

"Ss—ss!" came in a soft hiss from a lad across the table.

"Ss—ss! Ss—ss!" cautiously echoed a dozen others.

Samuel wriggled uncomfortably in his chair, but to his surprise, his neighbor on the right reached over and grasped his knee with friendly force. Samuel instantly responded by seizing the stranger's knee, and, fortified by this unlooked-for support, threw back his head and eyed in turn each lad at the table. There was something in his fearless glance that caused the hisses quickly to subside; and when the bell rang, and the students trooped out, no word of challenge was offered to him. Moreover, no other kind of words came either, for it was the hour of recreation, and the boys swarmed the campus, shouting, whistling, singing, and engaging in various athletic games. The most popular sports seemed to be leap-frog and basting-the-bear, for groups everywhere were indulging in these rollicking pastimes.

Samuel stood alone watching, for even his neighbor at table had joined the merry-makers. He decided that if he wished to become one of them he must make a bold move; so, marching up to one of the leap-frog companies, he ventured to enter the game. The effort was quickly foiled, however, for one pupil seized him by the leg, another by the hair, while twenty voices shouted at once,—

"Clear out! Don't you know you can't play with us till you get your blue coat?"

Samuel retired, much crestfallen, wondering when he should be promoted to the prevailing uniform. He wandered up and down the schoolyard, watching here, watching there, hearing never a word of greeting, nor meeting with a friendly nod or smile. At length he came upon an outer stairway, which seemed to lead somewhere, and climbing it, more with the desire to get away from the hordes of strangers than to explore the premises, he came out upon a flat, leaded roof. Resting his folded arms upon the parapet, he stood gazing at the evening sky, solitary and sad. Up to him came the shouts of the students and the roar of the city's noises, and for the first time since he had come to London, his heart turned back with a mighty longing to the fields, the river, and the simple folk of his native village. If only he might hear the lapping of the water and the tinkling of the sheep bells, he would give all that he possessed in the world. He thought of his mother and of his big brother Luke, and the vision of their faces came before him with such startling plainness that he set his teeth and clenched his hands to stem the tide of homesickness that surged over him.

At sound of the deep-toned bell, he hurried down the stair, suspecting that the slender supper was about to be supplemented by a tea or luncheon of some sort; but he was mistaken, for, although the western sky was still ablaze, the boys were filing toward the dormitories.

"This way, Coleridge," called the steward, appearing on the green.

"Where are they going?" inquired Samuel.

"To bed," rejoined the other briefly.

"To bed!" ejaculated Samuel; "why, it's only seven o'clock!"

"Seven is the hour for bed at this school," explained the other shortly, and Samuel gathered from his tone that further comment would be unacceptable.

Awakened next morning by the signal bell, Samuel sat up in his narrow cot and blinked sleepily. Across his bed was thrown a complete uniform such as the other boys wore, and springing up, he gladly donned the costume, and marched down with the others.

At breakfast he sat in the same seat he had occupied last night, and his right-hand neighbor greeted him with a cordial pinch on the arm.

The meal this morning consisted of a quarter-of-a-penny-loaf, on a wooden plate, and a small leathern cup of beer. Samuel was accustomed to rich country milk, fruit, and vegetables; but with yesterday's hunger still unappeased, he could not afford to be fastidious. In a twinkling the bread and beer had disappeared, and he was unconsciously glancing about in search of some one who would serve him with more, when he chanced to notice that every plate and cup at the table was swept clean, and that the lads were shifting about in their chairs as though anxious to be dismissed. Then it was that Samuel realized with a curious pang that plates were never refilled at Christ's Hospital, and that the allowance was always distressingly small. Almost as hungry as when he had sat down, he rose with the others and passed outside.

He was about to speak to his table neighbor, when that young person suddenly set off for the high iron palings. Without stood a half-grown girl, holding a little basket on her arm, and when the boy came up with her, she took something from the tiny hamper, and passed it through the fence. That the gift was in the nature of food of some sort, Samuel discovered from the alacrity with which the boy proceeded to devour it; and the lad from Devonshire stood watching the operation with the strangest of gnawing sensations inside him. Other boys looked greedily at this spectacle, but went about their affairs as though the sight were a familiar one; and Samuel, following their example, was turning mechanically away when a beckoning gesture from the lad at the fence called him thither.

"Here, I like you, and I'll give you a bit. Come on!"

Before Samuel had time to accept or decline, the stranger had crowded into his hand a hot roll, and was all but pouring a small can of tea down his throat.

"Thank you—it's fine," gurgled Samuel, "but I don't want to take the things you ought to have."

"I can spare some. You see I'm ashamed to have this stuff brought to me when the other boys can't get any, but when it comes, I'm so starved I eat it anyway. My sister brings a little breakfast over every day, for our house isn't very far away, and it helps out, I can tell you. Here's another piece of crust. Eat it, quick, for I know you want it."

Samuel accepted the proffered fragments gladly, frankly confessing that he had not felt quite satisfied at breakfast.

"Oh, we never have enough here," remarked the other calmly. "Wednesdays are the best, for then they give us meat stew; but that happens only one day in seven."

While Samuel swallowed the pleasing morsels, he keenly examined the face of his generous host. The strange boy was apparently a year or two younger than himself, slightly Jewish in appearance, and very handsome. He was frail-looking, with curling black hair, bright dark eyes, and sensitive lips. His expression was thoughtful, and something in his impulsive manner had attracted Samuel from the beginning.

"What's your name?" demanded the younger lad, when Samuel had finished his unexpected breakfast.

"Samuel Taylor Coleridge. What's yours?"

"Charles Lamb; and this is my sister Mary."

The girl smiled prettily, and waving her basket as she turned to go, called back, "You must come to see us some time with Charles."

Samuel thanked her and promised; and as the bell rang, summoning the pupils to lessons, he inquired,—

"How many boys are there here?"

"Six hundred."

"Plus one, now I've come."

"I like you," declared Charles again, linking his arm with that of the new boy, as they fell into line.

"I like you, too," responded the other warmly; and so began a friendship that grew stronger with each succeeding day.

Samuel was speedily installed in school work, and having been a book-lover from the age of three, he was placed in a class of boys who were generally older than himself. With these he made friends at once, for his originality, both in work and play, won the admiration of the lads. With the teachers, too, Samuel fared better than most, for while James Bowyer was not a man to be trifled with, having always a birch twig within reach for the correction of young offenders, his wrath seldom descended upon pupils so apt as Samuel.

"But," cautioned Charles, "look out for Jemmy Bowyer when he wears his passy wig!" He meant passionate, for on some occasions the head master appeared in the school-room with his smooth and carefully powdered wig replaced by an old, unkempt, and discolored one, and woe to the pupil who failed in his lessons or otherwise displeased him while thus decorated! His head-dress was the barometer that warned the boys of his moods, and they modelled their conduct accordingly.

Mr. Bowyer was a conscientious teacher, who desired to give the lads most thorough and careful instruction, and the boys who studied earnestly were safe from the touch of his rod except on the days when he wore the "passy wig." Then his temper was most uncertain, and worker and laggard alike were frequently brought to judgment.

At the end of a week, Samuel felt as though he had been a member of Christ's Hospital for a long, long time. Each day was spent like every other day, and he soon found himself going through the routine of study, recitation, play, and sleep as familiarly as the oldest student there.

On Saturday morning Charles said,—

"This is our weekly holiday, you know. Where will you go?"

"Nowhere, I suppose," replied Samuel. "My uncle has left town, and I don't know anybody else in London, so I think I'll have to stay here."

"You can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because nobody is allowed to stay inside the grounds on leave-days. We are all turned out as soon as breakfast is over, the gates are locked, and we can't come in again until evening."

"But surely they won't send us out who have no friends in London!"

"Oh, yes, they will. But come along, and we'll spend the day together somewhere. I'm not going home this time, because my people are away at work."

At eight o'clock six hundred boys filed into Newgate Street and scattered in all directions. For those whose parents resided in town, this weekly holiday was always most welcome; but to the boys who had neither kindred nor friends within reach, the enforced leave-day was often a difficult one.

To-day Samuel and Charles walked about the streets for a time, then made their way to the bank of the New River. Here, to Samuel's delight, green fields stretched before them, birds twittered in the trees, and sleek cows browsed along the shore.

"Oh, oh!" he exclaimed, "this is almost as good as the real country."

With one accord the boys snatched off their garments and plunged into the stream. Both were good swimmers, and they splashed about, diving, floating, and showing their skill in various ways, until they grew tired. Ascending the bank, they dressed quickly and wandered farther up the stream. For a while they threw stones into the current, watching the eddies widen from each pebble that sank into the water; and after a time they lounged against a convenient tree, Samuel relating stories that he had read of ancient heroes, and Charles eagerly listening.

"I wonder what time it is," hinted the latter at length.

"Not much past noon," replied Samuel, glancing at the sun with the experienced eye of the country-bred.

"Wouldn't it be fine if we were cows, with a whole field-full of dinner spread before us," murmured Charles, gazing at the Alderneys beyond.

"And see how fat that bird is! He must eat four or five meals every day!" exclaimed Samuel; then hastening to turn the conversation to topics less vital, he asked genially,—

"What things do you like best in the world?"

"Let me see," mused Charles; "yes, I know very well. I like money, vegetables, and my sister Mary. What do you?"

"Homes, churches, trees, and old people's faces," returned Samuel promptly. "What shall we do now,—go back into town?"

"Not yet, for if we do, we must keep on walking for four or five hours."

"Let's go swimming again, then."

"I'm with you," and a minute later they descended into the river for the second time.

Both were almost as much at home in water as on land, and they swam about, teaching one another aquatic tricks until they became quite breathless. Making for the shore, they climbed weakly up the bank, and only partially robing, dropped side by side upon the sward.

Overcome by fatigue, Charles fell asleep, while Samuel lay panting and composing verses about the Seven Champions of Christendom.

Finally they rose, languid and drooping, and trudged back to the school in Newgate Street, sorry that their holiday was done, but thankful for the supper, however meagre, that would presently be served to them.

As the weeks passed by and summer slowly gave place to autumn, Samuel made rapid progress in his classes. He studied almost constantly, not that he meant to be especially dutiful, but because he loved printed pages better than any other company. He was born with a thirst for books, which made him con his lessons eagerly in the absence of other and more entertaining volumes; and at Christ's Hospital the boys had no access to books of any kind besides the text-books used in their regular courses.

With no fresh stories, histories, or poems to feed his ravenous young mind, Samuel was obliged to dwell upon the tales and truths he had read before coming to London. He soon became known among the students as a capital storyteller, and often he would be found seated tailor-fashion in a remote corner of the playground, surrounded by a dozen choice spirits who listened open-eyed and open-mouthed to his dramatic recitals.

One Saturday in November he was walking down the Strand. Charles had gone to spend this leave-day with his parents, and Samuel was tramping about the streets alone. His thoughts were busy with his favorite hero, Leander, and so absorbed did he become in the story that he entirely forgot the presence of the crowds in the busy thoroughfare. Reviewing the stirring scene when Leander swims the Hellespont to visit the priestess, on the opposite shore, Samuel unconsciously threw out both arms as though buffeting the waves, and one hand smartly rapped the coat tails of a respectable gentleman walking immediately before him.

Samuel started in confusion at being brought back so suddenly from Grecian clouds to London pavements, and offered a stammering apology; but the citizen wheeled abruptly, grasped his arm, and frowned down upon him with mingled horror and distaste.

"What! So young and so wicked! Who could believe that a stripling like you would attempt to pick my pocket in broad daylight! Mm—mm!"

"You're mistaken, you're mistaken, indeed you are," protested Samuel; "I was thinking about Leander crossing the Hellespont, and I must have been swimming too. I didn't even see you, sir, truly I didn't."

"Leander! Well, my young gentleman, what do you know about Leander?"

Samuel explained that he had read and re-read all the mythical tales of Greece, and that he often thought them over for amusement.

The stranger's expression softened.

"You are fond of books, then?"

"I love 'em, sir!"

"Do you read every day?"

"Not since I came to London, for we have no books except our lesson books at school."

"Mm—mm! Should you like to read if you had the opportunity?"

"Wouldn't I?" burst out Samuel, with enthusiasm.

"I think we can arrange matters then. A boy who swims with Leander down London Strand, causing people to take him for a sneak thief, ought surely to have books to read," and pressing a yellow card into Samuel's hand, he continued,—

"This is a ticket to a circulating library in Cheapside. By showing this to the librarian you can draw as many books as you like. Good day, my young gentleman!"

Without waiting to hear Samuel's exclamations of gratitude, the stranger was off, leaving the boy overjoyed in the street.

From that day the school life was made more bearable by the precious fruit of the yellow ticket. Hunger, cold, loneliness, and punishments were daily forgotten in the adventures of knights of old. Samuel took all risks in slipping out to get the books, but, fortunately, he was never detected, and he proceeded to read straight through the library at the rate of two volumes daily.

The ruggedness of his present life, however, could not be entirely smoothed by stories and poetry. Christ's Hospital did not differ from other charity schools of the time in its discipline and arrangements for the welfare of its inmates; and indeed many of the great schools of England, Germany, and France, whose walls could be entered only by the payment of extravagant fees, were similarly conducted. Instructors had not yet learned that young bodies should be cared for as zealously as young brains, and that happiness promotes better work than does distress. They managed their schools exactly as had their fathers before them, deeming it the most natural thing in the world that growing boys should be poorly nourished and poorly warmed.

As winter drew on, Samuel yearned deeply for his home. He pictured to himself the family in the comfortable old house in Devonshire, and his thoughts clung so feverishly to the images of his mother and his big brother Luke that even his dreams enfolded them, and often he awoke weeping in the night. He could not inform the loved ones of his dreary condition, for all letters written by the students were read by the masters before being posted, and if unfavorable comments were found therein, the notes were promptly destroyed.

Charles Lamb was ever Samuel's greatest solace. They met their little world together, fighting, dreaming, hoping, and depending upon each other for company at all times. Both were gayly disposed and many were the daring pranks they played on their mates and upon each other. The leave-days were almost the hardest of the week for Samuel, as Charles usually went home, and he was left to walk the streets alone from morning till night. Sometimes he, too, paid a visit to the Lambs, but finding that they were very poor and very busy people, he feared that his presence might seem an intrusion, so he usually stayed away.

One winter's day Samuel was walking slowly round Newgate market. He had no interest in Newgate market, but he must walk somewhere, and this was as good a place as any. A cold rain beat pitilessly upon his uncovered head, and from time to time he drew his blue coat more closely about him. Everyone but himself seemed in a hurry to get to places of shelter, and occasionally persons would pause to stare curiously at the lad who stood motionless in the downpour, gazing listlessly into shop windows. Whenever he found a deserted stair or vestibule, he stole in and read until he was curtly despatched by owner or policeman. Round and round the square he trod, jaded, famished, waiting for the hours to drag themselves by.

Suddenly revolting at the sights and sounds of the market, Samuel hurried into a by-street, turning to the right here, to the left there, bent only upon leaving the deadly familiar spot behind. On he went, shivering and footsore. On he went, purposeless and oppressed. He was usually able to gather odd bits of pleasure and information from these weekly excursions, but to-day the city seemed like a dull and winding lane, where one had no choice but to walk and walk until nightfall brought the end. Even cathedrals, bird-stores, and persons attired in black, which ordinarily proved highly diverting, failed to arrest his attention, and he tramped the flooded pavements hour after hour and mile upon mile.

Finally he halted before a toy-shop whose windows looked into a narrow court, and was glancing over the display of balls, dolls, and fishing-rods, when a delicious odor of cooked food greeted him from behind. Samuel faced about so sharply that he almost sent a baker's boy sprawling, who chanced to be turning into the court with a huge basket on his shoulder.

"Look out! Look out! Would you try to upset a hard-workin' cove?" bawled the white-capped 'prentice; but Samuel allowed him to pass unanswered, for with the whiff of meaty fragrance his stomach gave a furious lurch, and his head seemed about to swim off his shoulders. He swayed unsteadily, caught blindly at the window ledge, and leaned his forehead against the dripping stone as he struggled to regain his self-command.

"Blue Coat!"

The name was shouted into his ear, and Samuel was dizzily conscious of being collared from behind, while a strong arm pulled him smartly erect.

"I beg your pardon, sir," quavered the boy, alarmed at the gruff tone and iron hand. Twisting his head about, he got a glimpse of a very fat man with a round red face and protruding blue eyes.

"What made ye look so hard at my baker's boy? Anything wrong?"

"No-o!"

"Must ha' been. You glared after him like a tiger."

"Nothing was the matter except I was so hungry,—and—when I smelled the bread and meat—I couldn't help it, I suppose."

For the first time since he had become a pupil at Christ's Hospital, Samuel gave voice to his privations, and, unmanned by sheer want and exhaustion, the truth came out, while tears of misery rained down his pallid cheeks.

"Hungry!" The ejaculation came like the report of a small cannon.

Samuel could only nod in speechless, desperate assent.

"Come in here!" roared the captor, enforcing his order with a ferocious tug at the blue collar.

Samuel feared that he had somehow trespassed upon the big man's rights, and that punishment was likely to follow. He longed vaguely to run, but weakness held him chained, and he felt himself being pushed before his jailer through the toy-shop and into a small parlor at the rear.

"Mother! This Blue Coat is so hungry that he nearly devoured our dinner through his eyes as the baker brought it in."

"Hungry?" echoed a piping feminine voice, and from the farther corner of the parlor a little woman approached with a napkin thrown over her arm.

"Sakes alive, ain't you had no dinner over to the school?" she asked in a motherly tone that set Samuel's heart beating.

"No. We don't have any dinner on Saturdays. They give us a little supper when we go back," and Samuel explained the holiday system.

"What, then, did you have for breakfast?"

"A slice of bread and a cup of beer."

"How perfectly outraging! Our dinner is just ready, so sit up to the table as quick as you can. 'Tain't a fancy meal, but it's good enough to fill up a hollow, faintin' stomach. How perfectly outraging!"

Before Samuel could consent or object, he was thrust into a chair at the small round table, where several steaming dishes awaited the pleasure of the party. Host and hostess took their places, and a heaped-up plate was speedily set before the astonished guest.

"Eat that slice of hot mutton," adjured the woman pleasantly; "and after that, you'll find those potatoes and beans pretty satisfyin'."

The substantial repast seemed a kingly banquet to Samuel, and he ate with almost wolfish appreciation. His plate was like the widow's cruse of oil, which was promptly refilled as soon as emptied; and the fat man and the little woman looked on, the while, with benevolence shining from their faces.

"Now," said the hostess, when Samuel could take no more, not even a second slice of currant pudding, "while we sip our tea, we'll tell each other who each other is. My husband over there is Mr. Crispin, and I'm Mrs. Crispin. He has the toy-shop that you came through, and he is a shoemaker, besides. We never had any children, and we just live along here, contented with what good things we have. Now Mr. Crispin is the best man in the world—"

"Hush, hush, my dear!" burst out the big man, a tremendous blush spreading over his honest face.

"He is, so there! He talks loud and kind o' scary, but he couldn't say 'no' to a kitten. Now, little Blue Coat, tell us who you are."

Samuel had quite regained his usual bright manner under the spell of their hospitality, and he gladly told them of the home and loved ones he had left behind in Devonshire. Pleased to see the Crispins interested, he described many droll adventures of the boys at school, and these set the worthy pair laughing mightily.

After dinner, Mr. Crispin showed his young visitor all the glories of the toy-shop and the shoemaking den. Mrs. Crispin with much pride exhibited four canaries, a yellow patchwork quilt, and a coral breastpin; and Samuel was warmed to the heart by their simple kindliness.

The afternoon wore away all too soon, and when he was leaving, Samuel held Mrs. Crispin's hand tightly in both of his, as he tried to thank her for the blessed visit.

"'Tain't nothing at all!" protested she earnestly. "Who wouldn't give a nice-spoken lad a bite when he was faintin' with hungriness on the very doorstep, an' him a Blue Coat, too? Now listen, Sammy; you are to come here every Saturday. If we shouldn't be to home, you'll find the key under the rubber door-mat, an' you can come right in an' help yourself in the pantry. 'T ain't just that we feel sorry to see you starvin', but we like children, we always did, 'specially nice ones, an' you seem so gentlemanly mannered, an' we'd feel honored to have you here. Remember, every Saturday, now, rain or shine."

His acquaintance with the shoemaker and his wife proved the greatest relief to Samuel. Not only did a toothsome dinner await him every leave-day in their modest parlor, but the whole-souled friendliness of their innocent welcome cheered him through all the following days. The Crispins looked forward to the Saturday visits as eagerly as did Samuel himself, and this assurance gave the boy courage to come with regularity.

During the springtime Mr. Crispin and Samuel even planned that the boy should gain permission from the head master to leave Christ's Hospital altogether and learn the shoemaking trade under Mr. Crispin's direction. It was arranged that the shoemaker, instead of Samuel, should approach Mr. Bowyer with the request, it being thought that his age and size would carry more influence with the head master; but on the day set for the interview Mr. Bowyer chanced to wear his "passy wig," and he disposed of the subject by shouting violently,—

"'O'ds my life, man, what d'ye mean?" and pushing the astounded Crispin bodily out of the room.

Samuel was so disappointed at the failure of the dazzling scheme, and so mortified at the treatment his friend had received, that he was rushing past Mr. Bowyer with the intention of apologizing to Mr. Crispin for having drawn him into his own petty troubles, when the head master stopped him.

"Some one is waiting to see you in my lower office, Master Coleridge."

"To see me, sir?"

Samuel was taken aback, for never before had any one paid him a call at Christ's Hospital.

"Who can it be, I wonder. Surely Mrs. Crispin would not come here."

Crossing the threshold of the office, he descried a stalwart manly form at the window.

The first glance seemed to stupefy the lad. He halted abruptly in the doorway, his hands fell limply at his sides, and he seemed unable to advance or retreat. It only needed a slight movement on the visitor's part to break the tension, when Samuel bounded forward with a great cry, and threw himself into the stranger's arms.

"Luke, Luke, my brother, my Luke, my Luke!"

"Here I am, little fellow. I wanted to surprise you, so I didn't write."

"Oh, Luke, you won't go away again and leave me here, will you? Please, please tell me that you won't!"

"I shan't leave you alone in the city for a day," declared the young man warmly. "I have come up to walk the London Hospital, so I shall be within easy reach hereafter. Your holidays you shall spend with me, and I have already arranged with the master to make you comfortable here at school. Bless you, little fellow, you mustn't quite suffocate me with your hugging, for I want to live and take good care of you. I have waited and worked for this ever since you came to London, and now you're going to have fair weather all round. Come along; I've just begged a holiday for you. What should you like to do?"

"Introduce you to the Crispins."

"Very well. We'll get the Crispins, and go for a ride on the good old river Thames."

"A boat ride! A boat ride! Luke, do you care if I ask Charles Lamb to go with us?"

"Not a bit. This is the day when we are going to do just as we please, you know."

"Oh, Luke, you're so good, and you'll like the Crispins, and Charles 'll like you—and—and—isn't the world beautiful to-day, Luke?"

In a cosy little parlor, at the top of a London stair, a dozen persons were chatting together. The sounds of wind and rain upon the casement only served to increase the warmth and brightness of the snug apartment.

Everybody seemed in the highest spirits, and finally one of the guests, a man whom the others called "Southey," turned gayly to the hostess and inquired with the ease of old friendship,—

"My good lady, when are we to have our supper? Please remember that Wordsworth and I have journeyed all the way from Keswick solely for the delight of supping with you. Do you realize that eleven o'clock has come and gone?"

Mary Lamb laughed merrily, but shook her head with decision.

"Fifteen minutes more you must wait, so curb your hunger as best you can. The guest of honor has not yet arrived, and when he comes, you will all agree, I am sure, that it would be worth while to delay supper until to-morrow, if only we might have him with us."

"A mystery! A mystery!" cried the visitors, and thereupon they began to ply Miss Mary's brother with questions as to who the expected personage might be.

To all these, the young host gave jovial but vague replies, exchanging with his sister frequent nods and smiles over their heads.

Presently there sounded a quick step on the stair, and Charles Lamb threw open the door, shouting joyfully,—

"Welcome, Samuel, my blessed old friend! Welcome, a thousand times!"

At his words, the guests sprang up with a single impulse, crying in astonishment,—

"Coleridge!"

Then for an instant they turned their eyes away from the two who stood clasping one another's hands in wordless, heartfelt greeting.

The silence endured but a moment; then the new-comer was quickly surrounded, and the room rang with the hearty good-will of his reception.

Charles hastened to relieve him of his travelling cloak and hat, Mary summoned the party to the table, temptingly laid, and the guests sat down to the enjoyment of the viands and the company of their unexpected friend.

Samuel Coleridge had just returned after a two years' absence from England, and the tales he related of his visit, the accounts he gave of his adventures abroad, captivated the company. Every word that fell from his lips was received with keen attention, and whether his mood was grave or gay, serious or sprightly, his hearers sat enthralled.

"To be sure, Coleridge is a wonderful poet," whispered Southey to the lady next him, "but in my judgment he talks even better than he writes."

"He holds us with his expressive eyes," mused Mary.

"I can see," decided Charles, "that his power lies in his magnetic voice, the voice that charmed us all in the old school-days."

Whatever was the source of his singular influence, hours passed as the visitors sat under the spell of Samuel's presence, and morning was stealing across the threshold when they rose from the table and took their departure.

Coleridge was the last to go, and when about to descend the stair, he again clasped the hand of his host with a warm and fervent pressure.

"I am fond of them all," he said slowly, indicating those whose footfalls still sounded in the passage below; "I am fond of them all: Southey, Wordsworth, Lovell, and the rest; but you, Charles Lamb, you are to me as though you had been born my younger brother."

---

"Tonin, Tonin, come out with us to the River! Luigi has built a raft, and we're going to pole it down to the second bridge."

Five boys, bareheaded, barefooted, dirty-faced, and joyful, grouped themselves before a mud-walled Alpine cabin, the last of a quaint village row, while Pablo, their leader, hailed some one within.

Instantly there appeared in the doorway a boy of their own age, clad as roughly and lightly as themselves. His blouse was loosened comfortably at the throat, his trousers were rolled well above the knee, and over these cool garments he wore a hempen working-apron which was held in place by a stout cord attached to its upper corners and passing about his neck. In one hand he held a small steel hammer, in the other a chisel.

"Come on, Tonin," repeated Pablo, pointing excitedly toward the brook.

The lad in the doorway shook his head and lifted his chisel meaningly, as though no additional explanation were needed.

"Oh, do, do!" urged the new-comers. "Leave your old stone-chipping for an hour and come with us. We'll let you pole all the time if you will."

"I can't," returned the other briefly.

"Please come! Come along!" insisted four alluring voices, but Pablo turned away impatiently.

"Leave that sullen Tonin alone! He'd rather bang away at his grandfather's stones than go with us on the jolliest jaunt we could name. Come on, and let him stay by himself."

Thereupon the boys ran swiftly down the adjoining slope, and Tonin Canova stepped into the house with a shrug, as though glad to be rid of them and their invitations. He did not tarry in the cleanly sunlit cabin, but hurried out to the rear garden, where an old man wearing an apron similar to his was busily tapping and chipping at a block of stone erected upon wooden supports.

"Why didn't you go with the others?" inquired the stone-cutter, looking up from his work. "You needn't have come back, because I have finished the urn for the terrace of the Villa d'Asolo, and it is too late in the afternoon to begin on the Monfumo altar ornaments. Besides, you have stood by your work pretty hard lately, and I think every boy needs a holiday once in a way."

"I don't want a holiday, grandfather."

"Bless us! What are you talking about? Who ever heard of a boy who didn't want a holiday every day in the week, if he could get it?"

"I'd like to be free from working on your things, of course, but I don't want to pole a raft. I'd rather carve my cherries, if you can do without me the rest of the afternoon."

"Ho, ho!" chuckled the old man fondly; "you're just like me, Tonin: work is play when it happens to be stone-work. Do your cherries, if you have the mind."

"Hurrah! I can finish them to-day, and I'll do a pear next, and—see, grandfather, by carnival-time I'll have plenty to sell," and throwing open the door of a small rude cupboard set in the branches of a stunted acacia, Tonin proudly displayed a collection of peaches, apples, and grapes which his skilful fingers had wrought out of fragments of stone left from old Pasino's cuttings. Next autumn, when all the villagers and country folk of the province would assemble at Asolo for their carnival and yearly frolic, Tonin would peddle his pretty fruit among the pleasure-seekers, confident of filling his purse-bag with coins in exchange for his wares. As he stood reviewing his handiwork, he smiled slyly at thought of the gifts he would buy for the two old people who adored him, and who had freely shared with him their roof and bread, from his earliest infancy.

The stone-cutter's earnings were necessarily small, and for two years Tonin had assisted him regularly at his work, cutting, carrying, measuring, and delivering day by day. He seconded Pasino's efforts so intelligently, and labored through the long hours with such manly patience, that the scanty comforts in the Alpine cabin visibly increased, and all the while the boy was learning the use of the cunning edged tools which his grandfather wielded so dexterously. The lad's name, as it appeared on the parish register, was Antonio, but to the guileless aged pair who cared for him he was simply and always Tonin.

Hoof-beats, accompanied by a shout from the roadway, caused the stone-cutter and the boy to hurry quickly to the hedgerow before the cabin.

A mounted horseman wearing the livery of the Duke d'Asolo called out, as with difficulty he brought his spirited steed to a standstill,—

"Pasino, you are wanted at the villa. Something in the picture gallery needs to be done, and you are the only one to do it. The duke gives a great banquet to-night, and the room must be in readiness. Vittori sent me, and bids you to hurry as fast as you can."

"I'll follow you at once. Come, Tonin, mayhap you can be of service at the villa also."

Off galloped the messenger, and down the road marched Pasino Canova, bearing his tool-box upon his shoulder, while his barefooted grandson, similarly equipped, trudged cheerily by his side.

The stone-cutter was frequently in demand at the Villa d'Asolo, for besides the craft of his trade, the old man understood something of the uses of plaster, stucco, and even marble. No other workman in this remote hill country was so skilled, and for many years he had received the friendly patronage of Giovanni Falier, Duke d'Asolo.

On the way, Pasino stopped for an instant before the entrance of a gentleman's country residence. "This'" said he, "is the home of Toretto, the great, great sculptor."

"Oh, grandfather, let's go in and look at his wonderful statues," begged Tonin. "Please, grandfather! Surely he wouldn't care, for I came once with Giuseppe Falier, and he allowed us to look at everything. Do, grandfather!"

"Not to-day," objected the old man, hastily resuming his onward way; "we have work to do, and have promised to hurry to the Villa d'Asolo as fast as we can."

Tonin slowly followed Pasino down the road, looking backward over his shoulder as long as the tall chimneys of Toretto's palace could be seen.

"Grandfather," said he thoughtfully, as a turning of the way shut the sculptor's house from sight, "I'd rather be able to make a statue as beautiful as the ones Toretto showed us that day than do anything else in the whole world."

"Ah, that you might!" burst out the old man emphatically; "but, Tonin, for such work the eyes, the fingers, the mind must be taught—taught, Tonin, and—well, you know the rest: poor folk like us mustn't be gloomy because we can't do fine works. Chances to learn such things cost so much that none but gentlemen with bulging purses can afford them."

"I'm not gloomy, grandfather! You can teach me all that you know, and when I am a man, I will take care of you and grandmother." Here the boy began to whistle gayly, seeking to banish the look of sadness that had rested for a moment on the old man's features.

Presently they reached the Villa d'Asolo, whose pillared gates were thrown open to them by retainers. Across the terraces they took their way, past arbors, gardens of blossoms, and plashing fountains, reaching at last a postern door of the many-storied castle.

In the passage they were confronted by Giuseppe Falier, the duke's youngest son, a handsome lad no older than Tonin. A serving-man attended him, carrying a glass aquarium that contained numerous brilliant goldfish. Boy and groom were preparing to depart through the door by which the Canovas had entered, but at sight of the new-comers Giuseppe halted.

"Hello, Tonin," he exclaimed; "come with me up to my cousin's house. This is David's birthday, and I forgot all about it until this minute. I didn't have any present to give him, so I decided I'd take the goldfish out of the conservatory. He likes such things. I don't, myself. Come on, and we'll have some fun. David has a new boat, and we'll make him take it out."

Giuseppe's invitation was so frankly cordial that Tonin would have joined him readily had he had no duties to perform. Giuseppe was a lad of jovial spirit who chose his friends wherever he found good comrades, quite regardless of rank and riches, and many were the half-days that he and Tonin had spent together, exploring the hills and valleys round about Asolo.

"I can't go to-day, Giuseppe," replied Tonin; "grandfather has something to do in the picture gallery before the banquet to-night, and he is likely to need me."

"My eye, but there will be a crowd of people here! One reason I'm going up to David's is because I'm not allowed to stay up for the fun. Good-by. I'll take you up to see the boat some day next week," and beckoning the servant to follow with the aquarium, the young patrician disappeared through the outer door, and the Canovas made their way up a stately marble stair, and through a winding corridor until they came to a long narrow apartment whose walls were hung with canvases.

Here they were greeted by Vittori, the stout and hoary seneschal of the palace. He wore his crimson robe of office, and a stupendous bunch of keys hung by a chain from his girdle, clanking as he walked.

He bustled up to the Canovas hurriedly, puffing and panting as from some undue exertion.

"Ha, Pasino, you are the very man I most need to see. Those four deep niches in the walls, two at either end of this gallery, are to be filled with the statues which Toretto has just finished. The beastly things were delivered yesterday, and Toretto himself promised to come to see that they were set up properly, but instead, a message was brought from him two hours ago saying that he had sprained his silly ankle and could not stir from the house. The duke will be furious if his marble doll-babies are not on view to-night, and as I wouldn't touch them myself for fear of harming them with my clumsy fingers, I called you for the business. There, in that further ante-room, you will find Toretto's beauties inside the packing cases, and you are to get them safely into these niches. My-o! My-o! What a load of care falls on a poor old man who is keeper of a palace where one hundred noble guests are expected for a feast! Nobody in all Venetia has more worries and responsibilities. You may have as many men as you want, Pasino, and if your eye spies out any need for decorations in this chamber, send for what you wish. My-o! My-o! The carriages are beginning to arrive, and I must make eleven more arrangements before the feast is ready. You have plenty of time, for this room is not to be used until the ladies come up at the end of the banquet, to drink their Persian coffee," and the seneschal departed, accompanied by the sounds of his labored breathing and jangling keys.

Pasino's task was a delicate one, and though Vittori sent four strong men to aid him, the evening was nearly spent by the time the glistening statues were released from their temporary prisons and lifted to their pedestals in the gallery niches.

While they worked, sounds of music and subdued laughter floated up to them, and fragrances and appetizing odors were continually wafted from the banquet-hall below.

Tonin worked with the others, and when the sculptured nymphs were brought to view, his delight knew no bounds. Taking up his position before the last erected one, he stood with folded arms, silently, wonderingly drinking in the beauties which Toretto's chisel had effected. He was wholly lost to time and place and was quite unaware that the servants had removed all traces of packing and litter, and that a bevy of maids were now seated in the gallery, weaving garlands at Pasino's order, for the festooning of the unfinished pedestals. He was so absorbed in the snowy goddess before him that he was deaf to everything until old Vittori's voice suddenly rent the gallery's stillness with something between a groan and a shriek.

"Where is the aquarium? Who's seen my gold-fish? Answer, somebody, or I'll throw you all out of the window! Oh, I shall be disgraced and discharged and maybe half killed! Where is it? Why don't you speak?"

The seneschal's appearance, as well as his words, indicated unusual excitement, for his scarlet robe was thrown open at the throat, his frosty locks were rumpled, his uplifted hands were shaking, and his lips were twitching uncannily.

"What's the matter? What's wrong?" demanded a dozen voices, but Tonin darted across to the old man's side with the announcement—

"Giuseppe carried it away this afternoon as a present to his cousin David."

"My-o! My-o! I am lost, I am done, I am dead!" ejaculated the seneschal, wringing his hands.

"What's the trouble, Vittori?" asked Pasino, laying a quieting hand upon the shoulder of his agitated friend.

"It is this," returned the seneschal hoarsely; "the duke ordered me to send to the table a fresh ornamental centrepiece with each course, making every one handsomer than the one used before it. I did so, and all has now been served but the dessert, and that will be due in about fifteen minutes. For this fancy piece I have filled a great tray with Parma violets on snow, thousands of them—and in the midst of the flowers I planned to set the aquarium of goldfish for a bit of color and life. My-o! My-o! What shall I do?" and once again the seneschal fell to moaning.

"Build a column of fruit in the centre of the tray," suggested Pasino.

"Impossible! I used a pyramid of apricots and nectarines for the second course."

"Wouldn't a lighted candle or lamp do?" inquired Pasino, earnestly endeavoring to find relief for the seneschal.

"No! No!" wailed Vittori; "lighted things would melt the snow."

"To be sure," agreed Pasino sympathetically.

"I know something that might be pretty," ventured Tonin timidly.

"What is it?" Vittori demanded.

For answer the boy turned from the seneschal and his fellow-retainers, and whispered to Pasino apart. The old man's face brightened as he received the boy's confidence.

"I don't know," he commented; "but it ought to be good—yes, yes, it would be, it would indeed!"

"Then let him put it through," shouted the seneschal desperately. "I can't wait to hear what it is, for I'm late now. Do as he says, everybody, for I've got to trust my reputation to this stripling whether I like it or not. Saints help him, for if the work is a failure, woe to poor Vittori! Have your ornament ready in the lower rear passage, lad, when the tray goes through to the banquet-room. Everything else shall be taken in first, so that you may have as much time as possible."

Off went the harassed seneschal, and Tonin, beset with misgivings lest he had been both rash and bold in his offer of assistance, addressed the grooms with outward composure.

"Bring me a firkin of butter, a pail of the coldest spring water, and a big china platter."

His orders were swiftly obeyed, and all looked on with expectant interest while he directed a servant to dig from the cask as much butter as could be heaped on the platter. Next he rolled back his sleeves and plunged his hands into the water-pail, holding them there until they were sufficiently cooled for his purpose, then attacking the butter with his dripping fingers, he rolled and patted it into a goodly loaf, with motions so quick and decisive that the spectators fairly blinked. Seizing a small chisel and a pointed wooden blade from Pasino's tool-chest, Tonin began to convert the meaningless dairy lump into a form familiar to all beholders.

With the touch of his nimble instruments, attended by occasional taps and pressures from his lithe brown fingers, the loaf vanished, and in its place appeared a noble lion, quite as though Tonin's chisel had been a magic wand which had freed the king of the forest from a stifling and hideous disguise.

"In its place appeared a noble lion."

The tawny beast, with his bushy head, slender body, powerful limbs, and graceful tail, brought a torrent of babbling admiration from the on-lookers; but Tonin, heedless of their chatter, sought out his grandfather with questioning glance. He received a quiet nod from Pasino, and drying his hands on a corner of his hempen apron, he caught up the platter and carried it to the appointed place below stairs, followed by Pasino and a train of chuckling servants.

He had gauged the time exactly, for as he stepped into the low-ceiled passage, six flower-maidens, bearing the debatable centrepiece, entered from the opposite doorway. The seneschal joined them immediately, and without a word set Tonin's lion in the centre of the snowy field, enclosed on every side by drifts of Parma violets. Vittori then abruptly directed the maidens to enter the banquet-hall with their ornament.

That the seneschal was alarmed lest the duke would not be pleased with this hastily contrived decoration, Tonin read at a glance; and impulsively he threw himself before the carriers to stay their progress.

"Don't send it in if it isn't right, Master Vittori! Try something else, please!" he implored.

"Hist! Let them go, let them go! I have nothing else to send, so I must stand or fall by your butter-toy. Alas for me, and you, too, sirrah, if the duke be vexed!"

A strained silence fell upon the group in the rear passage as the flower-maidens crossed the main corridor and entered the banquet-hall. The grooms and maids exchanged significant nods and winks, old Vittori unconsciously pressed his keys tightly to his breast, Pasino withdrew into the shadow, and Tonin waited in acute suspense, wondering whether in his desire to relieve the seneschal's dilemma he had been guilty of a childish and ignorant blunder. As the seconds flew by, the boy's perplexity increased, and presently he was writhing with the fear that his offering would affront the duke, and perhaps even render him ridiculous before the lords and ladies who sat at the board.

Sounds of harps and violins greeted them from beyond the velvet-hung portal, but none in the rear passage regarded the melody.

Five minutes dragged by, and one of the flower-maidens stepped into the corridor. Each person in the rear passage started breathlessly forward to hear her message.

"His grace desires the seneschal to come to him."

"My-o! My-o!" groaned Vittori; "mercy knows what he'll do to me—and to you, too, Tonin Canova!"

Pausing just long enough to settle his scarlet robe and adjust his linen neckcloth, the seneschal concealed his distress as well as he could, and walked sedately into the banquet-hall.

Tonin locked his hands together in despair.

"What a dunce I was—I, Tonin Canova, who has never been off this mountain—to dare to set up my little work before grand persons like those! Oh, oh! and poor Vittori may be discharged on account of it!"

Suddenly the seneschal reappeared.

"Tonin, you are wanted at once! His grace has sent for you. Hurry! Go on!"

"Not in there!" gasped Tonin, retreating toward the stair door; "I should die of fright before those great folk."

"Hurry, hurry, you impudent monkey! Do you think you can keep the Duke d'Asolo waiting?"

To make an end of the argument, Vittori seized the boy by the arm, giving him a push that sent him into the banquet-room with a rush.

Tonin was half-blinded by the myriads of lights, and quite dazed by the grandeur of the spectacle. He dimly comprehended that the vast apartment was hung with vines and banked with flowers; that a table like a huge cross ran the entire length and nearly the breadth of the room; that the Duke d'Asolo sat at the upper end, and that hosts of ladies and gentlemen in gorgeous raiment turned about in their chairs and fixed their eyes upon the young visitor.

A scalding wave of shame rushed upward through Tonin's body, scorching his cheeks and dyeing his neck as he became conscious of his own workaday garb. He came to an abrupt stop, standing with downcast eyes before the Venetian company, a truly diverting figure with his loose blouse, rolled-up trousers and sleeves, bare arms, bare legs, and dripping apron.

"Come, my lad, and tell us something about yourself," said the duke in a tone surprisingly gentle for one who palpitated with wrath and vengeance.

Tonin made his way slowly up the room, pausing at the duke's elbow, and raising his eyes just far enough to get a glimpse of his yellow lion on the table, directly before Giovanni Falier.

"When did you do this?" inquired the master of the feast, indicating the ornament with his jewelled index finger.

"To-night," admitted Tonin feebly.

"Can you make other figures and objects?"

"Yes, signor."

"Where did you learn?"

"From grandfather, signor."

"I have been greatly surprised this evening, as also have been my guests, at sight of this—this decoration, and ahem—"

"Now it's coming," thought Tonin in a panic. "Perhaps he'll put me in a dungeon."

"I have sent it clear around the table so that every one might examine it closely, and we all agree about it. How should you like to make statues, lad,—nymphs, you know, and fairies—"

"And goddesses like that one upstairs?" cried Tonin, his face alight with this unexpected turn of the conversation.

"Yes."

"Oh, oh! I'd rather make a goddess like that than to be a king, or go to the carnival!"

A chorus of laughter greeted this outburst, and Tonin trembled with embarrassment and surprise.

"Then you shall," the duke declared with a smile like April sunshine. "You must have worked pretty hard, harder than most boys ever do, to be able to make this," pointing to the lion; "and if you are willing to keep on working, you may learn to do great things. You shall go to Toretto, the sculptor who did the four pieces upstairs, and he will teach you to make statues as good. Shall you like it, my boy?"

"Like it! Oh, signor, if I had a chance to learn anything so beautiful I'd work—I'd work—"

A vision of the glistening goddess and her wordless grace came before him, causing something to spring up in his throat that choked him. Twice he tried to finish his eager speech, but the words did not come. He gave a quick, eloquent gesture of entreaty, and down went his face into his hands before them all.

"A toast, a toast!" exclaimed the duke, springing to his feet with upraised glass. "We'll pledge in water, if you please, good people, for clear water and unspoiled childhood are the purest things of earth. Ladies and gentlemen, I offer you our little friend, Tonin Canova. May he work faithfully with his teacher day by day, and when he comes to manhood, may he be good and great and happy! God bless him!"

Clink, clink, went the glasses.

Tonin raised his head, and as he turned to withdraw, he whispered to the duke with a beaming smile,—

"I don't know any nice words to say, but maybe you'll tell all the people for me how a boy feels when he's too happy to laugh and too happy to cry."

Up the Alpine road to the village of mud-walled cabins rode a man one day in autumn. His air was that of an experienced traveller, his dress rich but modest, his horse a spirited charger.

At the entrance to the village, a turn in the road brought him face to face with a man in peasant attire who was walking in the opposite direction. The rider bent curiously, and gazed down at the passer-by with keenest interest; then bringing his horse sharply to a standstill, he cried,—

"Pablo! Don't you remember me?"

The man by the way halted in surprise. For a moment he regarded the stranger blankly, then some memory out of his boyhood seemed to awaken, for suddenly he seized the horse's bridle with both hands, and shouted,—

"Tonin Canova! By all the fates and furies, you are the last man in the world I expected to see to-day!"

"I knew you by your quick and springy step. I suppose you are still the leader of the town, Pablo, the foremost citizen of Passagno."

A flush of pride crept into the peasant's cheek, but he merely waved his hand toward the extensive vineyard lying further down the slope.

"That is mine. That's all."

"And enough, too, old friend. Your purse must be ready to overflow, after a harvest from that fine vineyard."

The peasant blushed again and nodded. Then half timidly he addressed the other,—

"I'm glad to see you again, signor—"

The rider lifted his hand in rebuke.

"Not signor to me, Pablo! I am still your friend, and not in any wise changed from the lad who played with you in this very roadway."

"But you have grown powerful and wealthy!"

"Ye-es, but gold coins can never make me anything else than I was before."

"But we have heard that the city of Venice gave you a pension for your whole life, because you had made such wonderful statues."

"Yes, Venice has been good to me."

"And that all the great people of Rome are friends with you."

"True, but—"

"That the Pope has written your name in the golden book of the capital."

"So he did; still—"

"That Napoleon of France invited you to his court, and that the German Emperor has even made you a knight."

"Hark to me, Pablo!" and this time the rider's voice was commanding. "These things are indeed true, for people everywhere have shown me the rarest kindness; but while the palace doors of all Europe are open to me if I care to enter, and ladies and gentlemen of every nation pour their compliments and gold upon me, my heart has turned back to my native village and the dear simple friends of my childhood. I have left the great world for a time, and have come back to see the old faces; and Pablo, on that slope, near the little cottage,"—here his voice broke, as he pointed to the last of the mud-walled cabins,—"I have planned to build a church as beautiful as the Parthenon at Athens. If my good old neighbors cannot travel far enough to see the temples of the world, they shall have one near at hand, which will show them that Canova has not forgotten them."

True to his word, the sculptor lingered in Passagno until there had risen on the mountain side a classic, snowy edifice which was the wonder and pride of all the villagers. When the builders had finished and had gone their way, the man who had designed it all put on his apron, took up his chisel, and completed for the altar ornaments that he had begun twenty years before, when he had lived in the cabin just over the way.

How the people rejoiced in their pillared house of worship, and how grateful they were to the giver of so splendid a gift. Warmly they bade him farewell when his task was at length completed, and he was obliged to go in order to execute the greater works that awaited him.

At last, in the city of Rome, when the sculptor's hair whitened, his step faltered, and his heart grew strangely still, the friends about him, a brilliant company, carried him tenderly up the Alpine road, and laid him to rest beneath the altar of his own carving.

When the service was ended, the lords and ladies, the princes and cardinals, the poets and teachers who had paid him their devotion to the last, wound their way slowly down to the turbulent world; and Tonin Canova slept on the mountain side, in the heart of his Alpine village.

---

It was the evening study hour at Nicholas Chopin's boarding-school. Twenty-five lads belonging to the oldest families of Warsaw were assembled in the schoolroom, preparing lessons for the following day.

The place was large, well lighted, and comfortably warmed; good pictures hung on the walls, and racks of books filled every available nook. At the upper end of the room, near the master's desk, stood an open piano; and at the lower, a table bearing plates, cups, and wholesome refreshments which would be distributed among the boys when study-hour was over. Throughout the room great cheerfulness and comfort reigned, and the apple-cheeked boys at the desks showed that they were generously cared for under this kindly roof. They were mostly little fellows, ranging in age from eight to twelve years, and a merrier company one would journey far to find.

When Nicholas Chopin sat behind the desk, this hour was always a quiet one; for while he was indulgent with the boys out of school, furthering their enjoyment with all his heart, he was also a strict and thorough teacher, who would tolerate no disturbance from the pupils during lesson-time.

But to-night the master was absent, and the new assistant, a mild-eyed, pale young man, sat in Nicholas Chopin's chair and sought to keep the boys at their tasks. He had been among them but two or three days, and at the very beginning the pupils had decided that this was his first attempt at teaching. His soft voice and worried look filled the boys with glee; and half their playtime was spent in making plans to mock and deride him. Until now, however, they had failed to carry out their mischievous schemes, for Nicholas Chopin had compelled them to treat the new assistant with respectful obedience. But to-night the master had gone from home, leaving his assistant in full charge of the school, and the boys threw all rules to the winds for the sole purpose of vexing the new teacher.

Instead of the usual stillness maintained at this hour, the room was a-buzz with whispers. The boys noisily shuffled their feet, rattled their papers, and tossed their books about on their desks. The teacher rapped sharply with his ruler again and again, but these warnings were greeted with impudent chuckles and laughter.

At one of the side desks sat Frédéric Chopin, the master's son, toiling at a much blotted copy-book. He was heartily liked by every boy in the house, and for some reason, whenever he spoke in his quiet way, the others obeyed his wishes without a syllable of complaint. John Skotricki, who had the strongest arms and legs at school, was the ringleader on the playground; but Frédéric was chief councillor and fun-maker at all other times and places. Although the master's son, he enjoyed no special favor or liberty, but was held to the same line of duty prescribed for the other students. In the classroom he was not noticeably clever, for he was very bad at numbers, and it is doubtful if he could have found his own country on the great globe in the corner; but there was one thing that Frédéric Chopin could do better than any other boy in the school, better than any other boy in Warsaw, better, probably, than any other boy in all the country of Poland: he could play magnificently on the piano. So remarkably he played that everybody wondered, and strangers often came to the house for a glimpse of the young musician.

A year before, when he was nine, he had played at a great charity concert given in the city hall, and after the performance the people had surged by the stage to shake his hand and praise him; and in the excitement and pleasure of it all, he might have become very vain of his powers and success, but he remembered just in time that while he could play brilliantly on the piano, he could not jump as far by ten inches as John Skotricki, and that he did not know as much about grammar as the youngest pupil at school.

One boy who had attended the concert, and who loved music passionately, was the young Prince Radziwill. He decided that evening that he would like to know the boy pianist, and soon it was no uncommon thing for the prince's carriage to roll up to the Chopin school. Frédéric went often with the young nobleman to drive, sometimes even accompanying him home to the palace; but of these things he never spoke to the boys at school, and not one of them was jealous because Frédéric had become the prince's friend.

He practised diligently for many hours every day in his own room; but he never mentioned the subject of music to the other lads, and when in their company he was as happy-go-lucky as any schoolboy in Warsaw.

To-night, however, when he saw the new teacher's face flush with displeasure in the noisy schoolroom, he felt a bit sorry, for he knew that the young man would prove to be a good-natured companion if he were not enraged at the outset.

Frédéric glanced uneasily about him from time to time as the confusion increased, realizing that even the most patient of teachers would not long endure such rebellion. He, as much as any one, enjoyed the antics that kept the whole school tittering, and was strongly tempted to join in the mutiny; but he had promised his father to stand by the new assistant this evening, and he felt honor-bound to do it.

The crisis came when John Skotricki leaped from his seat and ran down the room in pursuit of a boy who had given him a cuff on the ear in passing. The teacher sprang up with an angry light in his eye, and flourished the ruler threateningly. Frédéric exchanged glances with the assistant, and threw down his pen with the announcement,—

"Boys, if you'll all be quiet in your seats, I'll tell you a story."

The others, supposing that Frédéric was on their side, and that this was a part of the joke, folded their arms; and instantly the room grew so still that one could hear the ticking of the clock in the hall beyond.

Frédéric turned out all the lights, for "a story always sounds better in the dark," he explained. Then seating himself at the piano, he began to speak, playing all the while music that helped to tell his story.

Every student rested his arms on his desk, and bent attentively to listen.

"Once upon a time there stood a great house on the bank of a lonely river." (Here came a lightly running passage on the piano, like the rippling of water.) "A band of robbers riding through the country paused in the glade at nightfall. Seeing the old mansion by the river side, they decided to force an entrance at midnight and carry away the gold and jewels that were probably secreted there.

"They laid their plans carefully" (sounds of many gruff, deep-toned voices, one at a time, then all together in a rumbling chorus), "and at the solemn hour they had chosen" (twelve clanging tones), "they tied their horses farther up the dell, and marched, two by two, toward the house by the swirling river. Noiselessly they approached and surrounded the many-pinnacled dwelling, each robber choosing a window through which he would make his entrance. At the signal of the leader" (a high faint trill), "each man climbed to his window ledge, sawed straight through the iron bars that protected it" (a steady rasping sound as of edged tools), "and ripped out the glass with the point of his dagger" (tinklings as of shattered crystal).

"Now for the treasures! Each man had one foot inside the house, and one hand on the inner sill, when, all at once, lights flared up in every room" (a reckless sweep of notes), "dogs barked fiercely, shouts were heard from the upper corridors, pistol-shots burst on the stillness of the night, and the robbers leaped from their perches, rolling over and over in the mud below" (loud discordant notes, and the bang, bang of the pistols mingled with the furious growling and yelping of dogs).

"Gaining their feet in a twinkling, the robbers fled as swiftly as though wearing wings on their boots; and reaching the horses in breathless fright, they swung themselves into their saddles and galloped madly away. Hour after hour they rode" (pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat of the hoof-beats), "through valley and village and glen. On, on they spurred" (pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat), "until they came to a deep, dense forest. Into its shadows they plunged, knowing that here they would be safe at last from the dogs and the men who lived in the house by the rolling river.

"They pulled up their horses and listened" (silence), "and listened" (silence), "but heard no pursuing feet. So, dismounting, they turned their horses loose to nibble at will, and jaded by hours of reckless riding, the robbers threw themselves upon the green turf to rest. The scents of the flowers were sweet, the grass was deep and soft, the leaves overhead rustled, rustled, rustled, and ere long, in the cool of the summer's dawn, the weary robbers—fell—asleep."

So quietly had Frédéric spoken, so softly had he played as he described the woodland sounds, that, gently touching the final chord, he discovered, by the moonlight streaming in through the windows, that twenty-four boys, like the tired robbers, were fast asleep.

"Like the tired robbers, were fast asleep."

Stealing from the room on tiptoe, he summoned his sisters and the servants to bring in lights; then stepping to the piano, he struck one crashing chord.

As though a bomb had exploded among them, the boys started from their slumbers, rubbing their eyes and staring stupidly at one another.

At that moment the clock chimed the hour of dismissal, and Nicholas Chopin entered the room; whereupon the pupils bounded from their seats with shouts of laughter over the musical spell that Frédéric had cast upon them.

When the cups and plates went round, the new teacher drew the master into the hall and told him how cleverly Frédéric had helped him to maintain order; but in the schoolroom the lads were waving their sandwiches and napkins, and cheering the master's son as a jolly comrade and a true-blue mate.

>The city of Warsaw adored its composer, Frédéric Chopin. The residents detected hidden meanings in his playing of the piano which they believed would sometime be accepted beyond the realm of Poland.

He was young, handsome, and gay, and his companionship was sought on every side. Had not his breast been stirred by an impulse stronger than the mere desire for popularity, Frédéric Chopin would have developed into nothing more than an elegant young musician, the acknowledged favorite of his fellow-townsmen. But he was not content to end his career so tamely. He must see the world. He must conquer the public beyond his native land. He must play, he must compose, he must work and study to greater ends.

Accordingly, one day in November, at the age of twenty-one, he set out for Vienna. When he found himself actually leaving kindred and home behind, a flood of sadness swept over him.

"I shall never return," he groaned; "my eyes will never look upon Warsaw again!"

His friends responded lightly to these fears, and with their words of cheer he soon recovered his usual bright spirit.

He was escorted as far as the first day's travel would carry him by a score of affectionate friends; and at the end of a banquet given in his honor, he was touched to the heart by one of their number presenting to him a silver goblet filled with Polish earth, with entreaties that he would meet the world as a man, and keep his country in constant remembrance.

In Vienna he attracted much attention by his playing, and at the end of a year he was accounted one of the leading musical spirits of the city.

He had decided to pay a brief visit to his home and friends, when on his way he was horrified to learn that his beloved Poland had been seized by the Russians, that his country was in the hands of the enemy, and that Warsaw was converted into a camp of foreign soldiers. He dared not advance farther, as all absent Poles had been warned by the new Government to keep away from Poland, on pain of death.

Frédéric was nearly crushed by these unlooked-for tidings, and, only waiting to learn that his parents were safe and well, he set his face toward Paris. Here he decided to make his home, as had so many others of his exiled countrymen. Success in this city meant success in the world, and for this Frédéric Chopin labored through the following years.

His playing was so rare, so peculiarly delicate, that no one in Paris could approach him in his chosen style. One critic called him "the piano god," another, "Velvet Fingers"; and when his compositions were printed, and the people could play them for themselves, they were nigh transported by his genius.

London vainly besought him to take up his residence there, but he steadily refused, remaining for the rest of his days in Paris, the pride of the Parisians and the idol of the many Poles who, like himself, were exiled from their native land.

When the end came, and the "velvet fingers" were stilled at last, he was buried from the Church of the Madeleine. Crowds of distinguished persons and homeless Poles attended the sacred service, and the procession was numbered by hundreds, that, to the strains of his own "Funeral March," followed Frédéric Chopin to the tomb.

Finally, when his body was lovingly laid in the place prepared for it, one of his countrymen brought forth the silver goblet which for nineteen years the composer had fondly cherished, and, as the sweetest benediction he could offer, reverently took a handful of Polish earth and sprinkled it upon the body of Frédéric of Warsaw.