special purpose. The musician
Christofori, who had sung in the choir in the Chapel, pronounced the
copy absolutely correct. Every one was amazed, and then so much
delighted at the marvelous skill of this boy of fourteen that the
penalty of excommunication was entirely forgotten. Princes, Cardinals,
all that part of Rome which loved art and music, had only wondering
admiration for the young German musician.

There had never been any doubt among those who had met the boy Mozart
that he was a genius. At fourteen years of age he had already been
playing the clavier and the violin for a number of years. His father,
himself a musician, was attached to the court of the Archbishop of
Salzburg, and had written a great deal of music. But when he discovered
the amazing genius of his two children, his son and daughter, he devoted
himself entirely to training them.

The boy was born January 27, 1756, and was christened John Chrysostom
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, quite a large collection of names. The girl,
Maria, was four years older. When Maria was seven years old her father
began to give her lessons on the clavier, which was an instrument very
much like the piano, and the girl soon won the highest reputation for
her playing. When she began to play, her small brother Wolfgang, or
Woferl as he was called in nickname, although only three years old,
constantly watched her, and whenever he had the chance tried striking
the keys himself. At four he had shown the ability to remember solos
from concerts he was taken to, and it then first occurred to his father
that his son was a genius. Before long Wolfgang was composing pieces
which his father wrote down for him.

It was only a year or two later that Leopold Mozart, coming home with a
friend one day, found the boy very busy with pen and ink.

"What are you doing there, Woferl?" asked the father.

"Writing a concerto for the clavier," answered the small boy. "The first
part is just finished."

His father smiled. "It must be something very fine, I dare say; let us
look at it."

"No, no," said Woferl, "it isn't ready yet."

Leopold however picked up the paper, and he and his friend began to
laugh as they looked at the rudely scrawled notes. The paper was also
covered with blots, for the boy had kept jabbing his pen to the very
bottom of his inkstand, and often wiped the clots of ink across the
paper. But after a moment's examination Leopold stopped laughing, and
both men looked hard