The Principal's face changed at once.
"Oh! you look at it in that way, do you? Very well. Let us see if you have the making of a musician in you. I have had a box at the Opera for over ten years, so I am a pretty fair judge."
He opened a drawer, took out a sheet of paper, and wrote down some lines of poetry.
"Take this away," he said, "and set it to music for me."
Full of delight, I took my leave and went back to the class-room. On the way I devoured the poetry he had given me, with feverish haste. It was the romance from "Joseph"—"À peine au sortir de l'enfance," &c.
I had never heard of "Joseph" nor of Méhul, so I had no reminiscences to confuse me or make me fear I might fall into plagiarism. My profound indifference to Latin exercises, at this rapturous moment, may well be imagined.
By the next play hour my ballad was set to music, and I hurried with it to the Principal's room.
"Well! what's the matter, my boy?"
"I have finished the ballad, sir."
"What! already?