ey had talent
but that they were lazy; they would neither study nor practise, and yet
they expected to enjoy the fruits of labour without its drudgery. Both
Fico and Pinac felt that he was right, and from that day forward they
did practise and study, with the result that a year or so later they
were admitted into the Union; but times were hard and good regular
engagements were rare.

One day while Von Barwig was labouring hard to beat time and other
musical values into the head of a square-browed, freckle-faced youth of
nineteen, whom nature had ordained for the carpenter's bench and not
for the piano, a knock came at the door, and on invitation to enter, in
came a little fellow not more than nine years of age, black-haired,
dark-eyed, of olive complexion, his features plainly bearing the stamp
of his Hebraic origin. As he stood at the door trying to speak, Von
Barwig could not help commenting on his finely chiselled features and
the intelligence and fire in his eyes.

"What can I do for you, little man?" inquired Von Barwig. His soft
voice and kindly look of interest gave the boy courage; for he was
obviously afraid to speak.

"Come to me," said Von Barwig tenderly, and after he had closed the
door, he placed his arm around the boy's neck. The old man's trained
eye discerned in a moment the sensitive play of the lad's mouth, the
quivering of the nostril that denotes what we call temperament.

"I want to study--I want to learn--and they won't let me," blurted out
the boy, bursting into tears.

"Who won't let you?" gently inquired Von Barwig.

"My people," sobbed the child.

"Hully Gee, you're in luck!" interrupted the shock-headed youth. "I
wish my people wouldn't let me."

"You go home, Underman! You have no soul; this child has."

"You bet I will!" and with a dart at his hat, the big boy seized it and
ran out of the door in a moment.

"So you want to study music and they won't let you?"

"Yes, sir. I--they'll let me play at night, but in the daytime, I--I
must work."

In a short half hour Von Barwig made the discovery that the child was a
musical genius. He had taken no lessons and yet his manipulation of
the keys was marvellous, but all by ear. Chords, arpeggios, diminished
sevenths, modulation, expression, all were mixed up in formless melody.
The boy knew nothing, but felt everything. In Von Barwig's experience
it had generally been the other way.

"Who sent you to me?" asked Von Barwig a