"Whatever are you doing, Wolferl?" cried his father, gazing at the ink
stained fingers of his little son and then at the paper covered with
blots.

"Oh, Papa, a piano sonata, but it isn't finished yet."

"Never mind that," said Leopold Mozart, "let us see it, it must be
something very fine." Taking up the paper the father and his friend
looked at it curiously. The sheets were bedaubed with ink stains that
almost concealed the notes. For the child had thrust his pen each time
to the bottom of the ink well, so that frequent blots on the paper
were the result. These did not trouble him in the least, for he
merely rubbed his hand over the offending blot and proceeded with his
writing.

At first the two friends laughed heartily to see how the little
composer had written the notes over smudges, but soon the father's
eyes filled with happy tears.

"Look, my dear Schachtner!" he cried. "See how correct and orderly it
all is, all written according to rule. Only one could never play it
for it seems to be too difficult."

"But it's a sonata, Papa, and one must practice it first, of course,
but this is the way it should go."

He sprang to the piano and began to play. The small fingers could not
master the more intricate parts, but gave sufficient idea of how he
intended the piece to sound.