ors and gates! And bright and cheerful, too,
it looks, with its Tyroler people clad in their gay colours and their
gold-banded hats!

Fritz saw little of these things, or, if he saw, he marked them not.
Cold, hunger, and desolation, had blunted the very faculties of his
mind; and he gazed at the moving crowd with a dreamy unconsciousness
that what he saw was real.

The third day of his painful watching was drawing to a close. Fritz had,
several hours before, shared his last morsel of black bread with his
companion; and the bird, as if sympathising with his sorrow, sat
moody and silent on his perch, nor even by a note or sound broke the
stillness.

"Poor Jacob!"* said Fritz, with tears in his eyes, "my hard luck should
not fall on thee! If no one comes to hire me before the shadow closes
across the street, I'll open the cage and let thee go!"

* Every Starling in Germany is called Jacob.

The very thought seemed an agony, for scarcely had he uttered it when
his heart felt as if it would break, and he burst into a torrent of
tears.

"Potztausend!" screamed Jacob, alarmed at the unusual
cries--"Potztausend!" And as Fritz sobbed louder, so were the Starling's
cries of "Potztausend!" more shrill and piercing.

There were few people passing at the moment, but such as were, stopped;
some to gaze with interest on the poor little boy--more, far more,
to wonder at the bird; when suddenly a venerable old man, with a
wide-leaved bat, and a silken robe reaching down to his feet, crossed
over towards the fountain. It was the Curate of Lenz, a pious and good
man, universally respected in Inspruck.

"What art thou weeping for, my child?" said he, mildly.

Fritz raised his eyes, and the benevolent look of the old man streamed
through his heart like a flood of hope* It was not, however, till the
question had been repeated, that Fritz could summon presence of mind to
tell his sorrow and disappointment.

"Thou shouldst not have been here alone, my child," said the curate;
"thou shouldst have been in the great market with the others. And now
the time is well-nigh over: most of the Bauers have quitted the town."

"Potztausend!" cried the bird, passionately.

"It will be better for thee to return home again to thy parents," said
the old man, as he drew his little leathern purse from between the folds
of his robe--"to thy father and mother."

"I have neither!" sobbed Fritz.

"Potztausend!" screamed the Starling--"Potztau