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.