poor little fellow; and he felt
so ashamed of himself, so much ashamed; and the priest had told him to
try and do the same. He brooded over it so much, and it made him so
anxious and so vexed, that his brothers ate his porridge and he did not
notice it, his sisters pulled his curls and he did not feel it, his
father brought a stick down on his back and he only started and stared,
and his mother cried because he was losing his mind and would grow daft,
and even his mother's tears he scarcely saw. He was always thinking of
Findelkind in heaven.

When he went for water he spilt one half; when he did his lessons, he
forgot the chief part; when he drove out the cow, he let her munch the
cabbages; and when he was set to watch the oven, he let the loaves burn,
like great Alfred. He was always busied thinking, "Little Findelkind
that is in heaven did so great a thing: why may not I? I ought! I
ought!" What was the use of being named after Findelkind that was in
heaven unless one did something great too?

Next to the church there is a little stone sort of shed with two arched
openings, and from it you look into the tiny church with its crucifixes
and relics, or out to great, bold, sombre Martinswand, as you like best;
and in this spot Findelkind would sit hour after hour while his brothers
and sisters were playing, and look up at the mountains or on to the
altar, and wish and pray and vex his little soul most woefully; and his
ewes and his lambs would crop the grass about the entrance, and bleat to
make him notice them and lead them farther afield, but all in vain. Even
the dear sheep he hardly heeded, and his pet ewes Katte and Greta and
the big ram Zips rubbed their soft noses in his hand unnoticed. So the
summer passed away--the summer that is so short in the mountains, and
yet so green and so radiant, with the torrents tumbling through the
flowers, and the hay tossing in the meadows, and the lads and lasses
climbing to cut the rich sweet grass of the alps. The short summer
passed as fast as a dragon-fly flashes by, all green and gold, in the
sun; and it was near autumn once more, and still Findelkind was always
dreaming and wondering what he could do for the good of St. Christopher;
and the longing to do it all came more and more into his little heart,
and he puzzled his brain till his head ached.

One autumn morning, whilst yet it was dark, Findelkind made up his mind,
and rose before his brothers and stole down stairs a