art not yet a philosopher, my Friedrich. Thou art not fast-set on thy
philosophic equilibrium. Thou hast knocked down three books and a
stool since thou hast come in the shop. Be calm, my child: consider
that even if truly also the fast-bound-eternally-immutable-condition
of everlastingly-varying-circumstance--"

But by this time Friedrich was at home.

How he got through the next three days he never knew. He stumbled in
and out of the house with the awkwardness of an idiot, and was so
stupid in school that nothing but his previous good character saved
him from a flogging. The day before the Feast of St. Nicholas (which
was a holiday) the schoolmaster dismissed him with the severe inquiry,
if he meant to be a dunce all his life? and Friedrich went home with
two sentences ringing in his head--

"Do I mean to be a dunce all my life?"

"Friedrich can do nothing useful."

To-night the ballad must be finished.

He contrived to sit up beyond his usual hour, and escaped notice by
crouching behind a large linen chest, and there wrote and wrote till
his heart beat and his head felt as if it would split in pieces. At
last, the careful mother discovered that Friedrich had not bid her
good-night, and he was brought out of his hiding-place and sent to
bed.

He took a light and went softly up the ladder into the loft, and, to