g turned the heel of
her stocking, Marie would put it out of reach of the kitten, and lay
the table for dinner.

And Friedrich--poor Friedrich!--groaning inwardly at his sister's
indifference to her great opportunities for learning, would speculate
to himself on the probable fate of each volume in the old
schoolmaster's library, which had been sold when he, Friedrich, was
but three years old. Thus, in these circumstances, the boy expressed
his feelings with moderation when he said, "Our Marie is not clever,
but also she is never wrong."

If the schoolmaster was dead, however, Friedrich was not,
nevertheless, friendless. There was a certain bookseller in his native
town, for whom in his spare time he ran messages, and who in return
was glad to let him spend his playhours and half-holidays among the
books in his shop. There, perched at the top of the shelves on a
ladder, or crouched upon his toes at the bottom, he devoured some
volumes and dipped into others; but what he liked best was poetry, and
this not uncommon taste with many young readers was with this one a
mania. Wherever the sight of verses met his eye, there he fastened and
read greedily.

One day, a short time before my story opens, he found, in his
wanderings from shelf to shelf, some nicely-bound volumes, one of
which he opened, and straightway verses of the most attractive-looking
metre met his eye, not, however, in German, but in a fair round Roman
text, and, alas! in a language which he did not understand. There were
customers in the shop, so he stood still in the corner with his nose
almost resting on the bookshelf, staring fiercely at the page, as if
he would force the meaning out of those fair clear-looking verses.
When the last beard had vanished through the doorway, Friedrich came
up to the counter, book in hand.

"Well, now?" said the comfortable bookseller, with a round German
smile.

"This book," said the boy; "in what language is it?"

The man stuck his spectacles on his nose, and smiled again.

"It is Italian, and these are the sonnets of Petrarch, my child. The
edition is a fine one, so be careful." Friedrich went back to his
place, sighing heavily. After a while he came out again.

"Well now, what is it?" said the bookseller, cheerfully.

"Have you an Italian grammar?"

"Only this," said the other, as he picked a book from the shelf and
laid it on the counter with a twinkle in his eye. The boy opened it
and looked up disappointed.