his family rich (the boy was too young to wish for money for
himself); he made everybody happy, and himself famous.

Fame! that was the word that rang in his ears and danced before his
eyes as the hours of the night wore on, and he lived through a
glorious lifetime. And so, when the mother, candle in hand, came round
like a guardian angel among the sleeping children, to see that "all
was right," he--poor child!--must feign to be sleeping on his face, to
hide the traces of the tears which he had wept as he composed the
epitaph which was to grace the monument of the famous Friedrich ----,
poet, philosopher, etc. Whoever doubts the possibility of such
exaggerated folly, has never known an imaginative childhood, or wept
over those unreal griefs, which are not the less bitter at the time
from being remembered afterwards with a mixture of shame and
amusement. Happy or unhappy, however, in his dreams the boy was great,
and this was enough; for Friedrich was vain, as everyone is tempted to
be who feels himself in any way singular and unlike those about him.
He revelled in the honours which he showered upon himself, and so--the
night was happy; and so--the day was unwelcome when he was smartly bid
to get up and put on his stockings, and found Fame gone and himself a
child again, without honour, in his own country, and in his father's
house.

These sad dreams (sad in their uselessness) were destined, however, to
do him some good at last; and, oddly enough, the childish council that
condemned the ballad-book decided his fate also. This was how it
happened.

The children were accustomed, as we have said, to celebrate the Feast
of St. Nicholas by readings from their beloved book. St. Nicholas's