beautiful poems."

"Hear him!" said the cheerful little bookseller. "He will read
Petrarch. He! If my volumes stop in the shelves till thou canst read
them, my child--ho! ho! ho!" and he rubbed his brushy little beard
with glee.

Friedrich's temper was not by nature of the calmest, and this
conversation rubbed its tenderest points. He answered almost
fiercely--

"Take care of your volumes. If I live, and they _do_ stop in the
shelves, I will buy them of you some day. Remember!" and he turned
sharply round to hide the tears which had begun to fall.

For a moment the good shopkeeper's little mouth became as round as his
round little eyes and his round little face; then he laid his hands on
the counter, and jumping neatly over flung his dead weight on to
Friedrich, and embraced him heartily.

"My poor child! (a kiss)--would that it had pleased Heaven to make
thee the son of a nobleman--(another kiss). But hear me. A man in
Berlin is now compiling an Italian grammar. It is to be out in a month
or two. I shall have a copy, and thou shalt see it; and if ever thou
canst read Petrarch I will give thee my volumes--(a volley of kisses).
And now, as thou hast stayed so long, come into the little room and
dine with me." With which invitation the kind-hearted German released
his young friend and led him into the back room, where they buried the
memory of Petrarch in a mess of vegetables and melted butter.