erein he received his lessons, were precisely those in which the poor
bird-catcher, weary and tired from a day spent in the mountains, would
fall fast asleep, only waking up at intervals to assist Fritz over a
difficulty, or say, "Go on," when his blunders had made him perfectly
unintelligible even to himself. It may be well imagined, then, that
his proficiency was not very great. Indeed, when first called upon by
Grettl'a to display his knowledge, his mistakes were so many, and his
miscallings of words so irresistibly droll, that the little girl laughed
outright; and, to do Fritz justice, he joined in the mirth himself.

The same persistence of purpose that aided him while teaching his bird,
befriended him here. He laboured late and early, sometimes repeating
to himself by heart little portions of what he had read, to familiarise
himself with new words; sometimes wending his way along the plain, book
in hand; and then, when having mastered some fierce difficulty, he would
turn to his Starling to tell him of his victory, and promise, that when
once he knew how to read well, he would teach him something out of
his book--"Something good;" for, as the Curate said, "that would bring
luck."

So long as the winter lasted, and the deep snow lay on the hills, Fritz
always herded his goats near the village, seeking out some sheltered
spot where the herbage was still green, or where the thin drift was
easily scraped away. In summer, however, the best pasturages lay further
away among the hills near Steingaden, a still and lonely tract, but
inexpressibly dear to poor Fritz, since there the wild flowers grew in
such abundance, and from thence he could see the high mountains above
Reute and Paterkirchen, lofty and snow-clad like the "Jochs" in his own
Tyrol land. There was another reason why he loved this spot. It was here
that, in a narrow glen, where two paths crossed, a little shrine
stood, with a painting of the Virgin enclosed within it--a very rude
performance, it is true; but how little connexion is there between the
excellence of art and the feelings excited in the humble breast of a
poor peasant child! The features, to his thinking, were beautiful; never
had eyes a look so full of compassion and of love. They seemed to greet
him as he came, and follow him as he lingered on his way homeward.
Many an hour did Fritz sit upon the little bench before the shrine, in
unconscious worship of that picture. Heaven knows what fancies h