a mile beyond, there lived, and lives still, a little boy who
bears the old historical name of Findelkind, whose father, Otto
Korner, is the last of a sturdy race of yeomen, who had fought
with Hofer and Haspinger, and had been free men always.

Findelkind came in the middle of seven other children, and was
a pretty boy of nine years, with slenderer limbs and paler cheeks
than his rosy brethren, and tender dreamy eyes that had the look,
his mother told him, of seeking stars in midday: de chercher
midi a quatorze heures, as the French have it. He was a good
little lad, and seldom gave any trouble from disobedience, though
he often gave it from forgetfulness. His father angrily
complained that he was always in the clouds,--that is, he was
always dreaming, and so very often would spill the milk out of
the pails, chop his own fingers instead of the wood, and stay
watching the swallows when he was sent to draw water. His
brothers and sisters were always making fun of him; they were
sturdier, ruddier, and merrier children than he was, loved
romping and climbing, and nutting, thrashing the walnut-trees and
sliding down snow-drifts, and got into mischief of a more common
and childish sort than Findelkind's freaks of fancy. For, indeed,
he was a very fanciful little boy: everything around had tongues
for him; and he would sit for hours among the long rushes on the
river's edge, trying to imagine what the wild greengray water had
found in its wanderings, and asking the water-rats and the ducks
to tell him about it; but both rats and ducks were too busy to
attend to an idle little boy, and never spoke, which vexed him.

Findelkind, however, was very fond of his books: he would study
day and night, in his little ignorant, primitive fashion. He