"Oh!" said August, humbly, not even sure that he understood
entirely yet. He looked at Hirschvogel: surely it had a royal soul
within it: would it not wake up and speak? Oh, dear! how he longed
to hear the voice of his fire-king! And he began to forget that he
stood by a lady who sat upon a pedestal of gold-and-white china,
with the year 1746 cut on it, and the Meissen mark.

"What will you be when you are a man?" said the little lady,
sharply, for her black eyes were quick though her red lips were
smiling. "Will you work for the Konigliche Porcellan-Manufactur,
like my great dead Kandler?"

"I have never thought," said August, stammering; "at least--that
is--I do wish--I do hope to be a painter, as was Master Augustin
Hirschvogel at Nurnberg."

"Bravo!" said all the real bric-a-brac in one breath, and the two
Italian rapiers left off fighting to cry, "Begone!" For there is
not a bit of true bric-a-brac in all Europe that does not know the
names of the mighty masters.

August felt quite pleased to have won so much applause, and grew
as red as the lady's shoes with bashful contentment.

"I knew all the Hirschvogels, from old Veit downwards," said a fat
gres de Flandre beer jug; "I myself was made at Nurnberg." And he
bowed to the great stove very politely, taking off his own silver
hat--I mean lid--with a courtly sweep that he could scarcely have
learned from burgomasters. The stove, however, was silent, and a