And Franz agreed that it was not.
That was the beginning, and every day thereafter Franz worked at his whittling, and animal after animal grew under his knife. He was so busy he did not have time to be lonely, and had quite forgotten how sad he had felt over having to stay at home. It was such fun to see the figures come out of the wood and feel that he had made them. Of course they were crude, and not half so handsome as those his grandfather could have made; but any one could tell what they were, and that was worth a great deal.
By spring he had a whole menagerie, and when his mother came home she found he had been a busy boy, and a happy one as well.
“All made with the luck knife,” Johan said as he looked over the work.
“So grandfather says,” Franz answered. “It’s a splendid knife, but I don’t see yet where the luck comes in.”
And again the knowing smile went over the old man’s face.
One day soon afterward his mother had word from the man who had been her employer in Vienna that his little son was not well, and he was sending him to regain his health in the mountain air. A week later the child arrived with his nurse, and the first thing that attracted his attention was Franz’s menagerie.
“Oh! oh!” he exclaimed, “dogs, cats, sheep, goats, lions, elephants, and all made of wood! I want them.”
“He means that he wants to buy them,” his nurse explained. “Will you sell them, Franz?”
For a minute the boy hesitated. That menagerie had meant many months of whittling, and he loved every animal in it, and if Johan hadn’t interrupted, probably he would have refused.