him as unmercifully as they had scolded five minutes before.

"Beloved Friedrich; dear little brother! _Do_ write one for us. We
know thou canst!"

"I cannot," said Friedrich. "It is all nonsense. I was only joking."

"It is not nonsense; we know thou canst! Dear Fritz--just to please
us!"

"Do!" said another. "It was only yesterday the mother was saying,
'Friedrich can do nothing useful!' But when thou hast written a poem
thou wilt have done more than any one in the house--ay, or in the
town. And when thou hast written one poem thou wilt write more, and be
like Hans Sachs, and the Twelve Wise Masters thou hast told us of so
often."

Friedrich had read many of the verses of the Cobbler Poet, but the
name of Hans Sachs awakened no thought in his mind. He had heard
nothing of that speech but one sentence, and it decided him.

_Friedrich can do nothing useful._ "I will see what I can do," he
said, and walked hastily away. Down the garden, out into the road,
away to the mill, where he could stand by the roaring water and talk
aloud without being heard.

"Friedrich can do nothing useful. Yes, I will write a ballad."

He went home, got together some scraps of paper, and commenced.