perched on his father's knee, and listened with rapt absorption, and
often when the lesson was over, he would repeat what she had played in
exact imitation of her manner of playing.

Leopold Mozart, who was himself a talented musician, saw with pride
almost beyond expression, that both of his children inherited his
musical ability, and soon felt that Wolfgang was a genius. When the boy
was only four, his father, to test his powers, tried to teach him some
minuets which to his perfect astonishment, Wolfgang played after him in
a most extraordinary manner, not merely striking the notes correctly,
but marking the rhythm with accurate expression, and to learn and play
each minuet the little fellow required only half an hour.

When he was five years old, one day his father entered the sitting-room
of their home and found Wolfgang bending over a table, writing so
busily that he did not hear his father enter, or see that he was
standing beside him. Wolfgang's chubby little hand held the pen
awkwardly, but held it with firm determination while it travelled back
and forth across a large sheet of paper on which he was scribbling a
strange collection of hieroglyphics, with here and there a huge blot,
testifying to his haste and inexperience in the use of ink.

What was he trying to do? His father's curiosity finally overcame him
and he asked:

"What are you doing, Wolfgang?" The curly head was raised with an
impatient gesture.

"I am composing a concerto for the harpsichord. I have nearly finished
the first part."

"Let me see it."

"No, please, I have not yet finished."

But even as he spoke, the eager father had taken up the paper and
carried it over to where a friend stood, and they looked it over
together, exchanging amused glances at the queer characters on it.
Presently Leopold Mozart, after looking carefully at it, said:

"Why it really seems to be composed by rule! But it is so difficult
that no one could ever play it."

"Oh, yes, they could, but it must be studied first," exclaimed little
Wolfgang eagerly, and running to the harpsichord, he added:

"See, this is the way it begins," and he was able to play enough of it,
to show what his idea in writing it had been, and his father and the
friend who had before exchanged glances of amusement, now looked at
each other with wonder not untouched with awe.

In the Mozart collection at Salzburg, there is still preserved a music
book in which those early pieces wr