nts by the Catholics. Seated on a low stool at his uncle's knee, Hans
could have listened for hours to stories of the patriarchs Abraham, and
Jacob, and Joseph, which Father Gottlieb slowly read from the pale
written volume; but the duties of the convent allowed him only short
portions of time, in which, shut up in his own little room or cell, he
could entertain his dearly loved nephew; and often when both were so
engaged he had to jump up at the sound of a bell calling him to prayers,
and then, hastily locking up the precious volume, he would kindly stroke
the boy's curly head, and with a message to his mother, bid him
farewell. At other times he would take Hans into the beautiful chapel
belonging to the monastery, and show him its gaily adorned altars, and
curious images; and once or twice Hans got a peep into the Scriptorium,
or writing-room, were the monks were at work over their sheets of
parchment, writing so carefully one after another the curiously formed
letters which were then in use, and which are still used in the printed
books of Germany. Being read to, and finding what pleasure arose from
being able to read, and seeing so much of book-making and writing, made
little Hans wish very much to be able to read and write. A few years
before, he had thought that nothing could be so grand or nice as to be a
knight and go to the wars, and he would make himself a helmet of rushes,
and with a long willow wand in his hand for a spear, and his cross-bow
slung at his back, he would try to fancy himself a warrior, and set off
in pretence to the Holy Land, to fight against the Turks; but latterly
he had begun to think that he should like nothing so well as to be able
to read and write like Father Gottlieb, and the rest of the monks, and
it was a great delight to him, when his uncle allowed him to take in his
own hands one of the precious volumes to pick out the different letters
and learn their names.

What brought Hans at this time very often to the monastery, was, that
his uncle, whose turn it was to be purveyor or provider for the convent,
had employed his mother to make what they called writing color or dye,
for the copyist. This was, of course, something the same as what we call
_ink_ and it so happened that Frau Gensfleisch was in possession of
a secret by which a black dye could be made, which would not turn brown
with time, as that of many of the manuscripts. Every ten days or
fortnight, therefore, it was Hans' busi