love of the poor! That was to do something indeed!

This poor little living Findelkind would look at the miniatures
in the priest's missal, in one of which there was the little
fourteenth-century boy, with long hanging hair and a wallet and
bare feet, and he never doubted that it was the portrait of the
blessed Findelkind who was in heaven; and he wondered if he
looked like a little boy there, or if he were changed to the
likeness of an angel.

"He was a boy just like me," thought the poor little fellow,
and he felt so ashamed of himself,--so very ashamed; and the
priest had told him to try and do the same. He brooded over it so
much, and it made him so anxious and so vexed, that his brothers
ate his porridge and he did not notice it, his sisters pulled his
curls and he did not feel it, his father brought a stick down on
his back, and he only started and stared, and his mother cried
because he was losing his mind, and would grow daft, and even his
mother's tears he scarcely saw. He was always thinking of
Findelkind in heaven.

When he went for water, he spilt one-half; when he did his
lessons, he forgot the chief part; when he drove out the cow, he
let her munch the cabbages; and when he was set to watch the oven
he let the loaves burn, like great Alfred. He was always busied
thinking, "Little Findelkind that is in heaven did so great a
thing: why may not I? I ought! I ought!" What was the use of
being named after Findelkind that was in heaven, unless one did
something great, too?