f making such a great fuss about a few old ballads, that after all
were nothing so very wonderful."

This was flat heresy, and he was indignantly desired to say where any
were to be got like them--where even _one_ might be found, when St.
Nicholas could not provide them? Friedrich was even less respectful to
the idea of St. Nicholas, and said something which, translated into
English, would look very like the word _humbug_. This was no answer to
the question "where were they to get a ballad?" and a fresh storm came
upon his head; whereupon being much goaded, and in a mixture of vanity
and vexation of spirit, he let out the fact that "he thought he could
write one almost as good himself."

This turned the current of affairs. The children had an instinctive
belief in Friedrich's talents, to which their elders had not attained.
The faith of childhood is great; and they saw no reason why he should
not be able to do as he said, and so forthwith began to pet and coax
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.

In half-a-dozen days he began as many ballads, and tore them up one
and all. He beat his brains for plots, and was satisfied with none. He
had a fair maiden, a cruel father, a wicked sister, a handsome knight,
and a castle on the Rhine; and so plunged into a love story with a
mo