and the other to the memory of the man who should be the first to follow him to the grave. The next year he himself lay beside Beethoven.

We must remember this fact about Franz Schubert,-that he died very young. All his wonderful songs were written in a short lifetime of thirty-one years.

He was born in a little house on the outskirts of Vienna. Not far away rose the hills of the beautiful Vienna Forest where Beethoven loved to wander. Schubert's father was a poor schoolmaster who had a hard time to support his large family. At first Franz was taught music by his elder brothers. Later he became a choirboy, and received his education in return for his services in the choir, as Bach and Haydn had done. Besides singing, he studied the violin, the piano, the organ and composition.

But he hardly needed to be taught composition, for from the very beginning he was eager to write music. When he was still a little boy, he told an older friend that he really could not help composing. He said that he would do it every day if only he could afford to buy music paper. After that his friend kept him well supplied. From the year that he was thirteen until he died, Schubert composed whenever he could find a spare

moment.

To play in the school orchestra was one of his duties. He became the first violin and was sometimes the leader

of the orchestra while the teacher was absent. In this way he grew familiar with the works of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven.

On Sundays and holidays Schubert went home, and then he and his brothers used to form a string quartet, with their father as leader. Occasionally the father made mistakes. Franz would let a mistake pass the first time, but if it happened again he would say, with a timid smile: "Herr Father, something seems to be wrong there!"

When Schubert was sixteen he could no longer sing in the choir. He spent the next three years as his father's assistant, teaching little children their A B C's. It was tiresome, uninteresting work, but at odd moments he managed to compose a great deal of music. He was still only a boy, and yet he wrote songs so beautiful that they have been sung and enjoyed all over the world.

When he was nineteen he gave up school teaching and devoted himself to music. How he managed to live is a mystery, for he gave few music lessons, and the publishers would not buy his songs. But he had several good friends who helped him. He wrote music not because he expected to get fame or wealth by it, but because he loved to do it. At one time he was glad to receive twenty cents apiece for twelve of his loveliest songs.

After his death the publishers made thousands of dollars from the sale of these songs.

One summer morning Schubert was returning from a long walk in the country with some friends and they all went into a restaurant together for breakfast. As they sat at the table Schubert picked up a book that one of his friends had been reading. translation of Shakespeare's poems. through the book and a short poem caught his eye: "Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings." He read it through a few times.

It was a German
Schubert glanced

"If I only had music paper here!" he cried. "I have just the melody to fit this poem."

One of his friends drew a musical staff on the back of the bill-of-fare. In the midst of all the clatter and confusion of the restaurant, while Schubert waited for his breakfast, he wrote the bright, beautiful little song that is called "Hark, Hark, the Lark!" And that evening he set two more of Shakespeare's songs to music.

This story shows how easily and quickly Schubert wrote music. He enjoyed composing so much that sometimes he used to sleep in his spectacles, so that he might be ready to begin work the moment he awoke in the morning.

Schubert was a homely little man, stout and roundshouldered, with a rather heavy, dull face. Besides this he was awkward and shy in the company of stran

gers. Yet everyone who knew him loved him. He was cheerful and affectionate, and whenever he was interested in anything his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. Although he was always poor and unsuccessful, he was not unhappy. He had warm-hearted, admiring friends; he had time for pleasant walks in the country and for jolly gatherings in the tavern every evening; and above all, he had the joy of writing music.

He died without having heard any of his greatest works performed. After he was gone, the world began to realize that it had lost a genius. Two concerts of his own works were given in Vienna to pay his funeral expenses and to put a monument over his grave.

HARK, HARK, THE LARK

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs

On chaliced flowers that lies;

And winking Mary-buds begin

To ope their golden eyes:
With everything that pretty is,

My lady sweet, arise!

Arise, arise!

-Shakespeare

NOTE.-Phoebus is another name for Apollo, the god of the sun. He was supposed to drive his fiery chariot across the sky every day. In this pretty song Shakespeare says that the sun god is going to water his horses at the cups (or chalices) of the flowers, which are filled with dew.