ion.
Early in the morning, when the builders went to their work they always
found Hans already on the spot. At breakfast and noon, when the men
stopped work to take their meals, which were brought them by their wives
and children, old Hans found himself seated in the midst of the circle,
and played to them as they ate and talked. Many of the villagers came
and joined the party; and the whole was one continued scene of
merriment. Hans often said that he never before knew his own importance,
for he seemed to be wanted everywhere--whether folks danced or rested,
his fiddle had its part to play: and music could turn the thinnest
potato-broth into a savory feast.

But an unforeseen misfortune awaited our friend Hans, of which the
worthy magistrate, notwithstanding his kindness to the old man, was
unintentionally the cause. His worship came one day, accompanied by a
young man, who had all the look of a genius: the latter stood for some
minutes, with his arms folded, gazing at Hans, who was busy fiddling to
the workpeople at their dinner.

"There stands the last of the fiddlers, of whom I told you," said the
magistrate; "I want you to paint him--he is the only relic of old times
whom we have left."

The artist complied. At first old Hans resisted the operation stoutly,
but he was at length won over by the persuasion of his worship, and
allowed the artist to take his likeness. With trembling impatience he
sat before the easel, wanting every instant to jump up and see what the
man was about. But this the artist would not allow, and promised to show
him the picture when it was finished. Day after day old Hans had to sit
to the artist, in this state of wonder and suspense, and when at noon he
played to the workmen at their meals, his tunes were slow and heavy, and
had lost all their former vivacity and spirit.

At length the picture was finished, and Hans was allowed to see himself
on canvas. At the first glance he started back in affright, crying out
like one mad, "Donner and Blitz!--the rascal has stolen me!"

From that day forward, when the artist had gone away, and taken the
picture with him, old Hans was quite changed: he went about the village,
talking to himself, and was often heard to mutter, "Nailed up to the
wall--stolen! Hans has his eyes open day and night, looking down from
the wall--never sleeps, nor eats, nor drinks. Stolen!--the thief!"
Seldom could a sensible word be drawn from him; but he played the
wildest