By this time they had reached the city, where their ways separated. They parted with a hearty handshake, and each betook himself to his own house. Father Mozart’s way led him straight to the cradle of his boy. The little one was peacefully sleeping. He gently kissed him, and in a silent prayer commended him to the protection of the Lord. Then he went to his own room, took his violin, and in sweetest tones gave melodious expression to the happiness of his heart. That was always his way when his emotions were aroused. He had not played so beautifully for a long, long time as on that evening; perhaps he never played so beautifully in his life. Never before, indeed, had there been such a joyous and satisfactory inducement. Chapter II The Little Virtuoso The little Mozart was christened Johann Chrysostom Wolfgang Amadeus,[6] and was called by his parents and his sister Nannie,[7] “Wolfgangerl,” at least as long as he wore children’s shoes. On the fourteenth of December, 1759, he being then three years and ten months old, a pleasant family feast was given by the relatives and friends of the sincerely and heartily beloved Father Mozart, in honor of his fortieth birthday. On that day the solicitous mother had been actively engaged making preparations since early morning, and although her little eight-year-old daughter Nannie was an industrious helper, there still remained so much to be done that she could pay little or no attention to Wolfgang, who consequently passed away the time until noon just as he pleased. Dressed in his best clothes, the little fellow sat at the window, quietly looking out into the street, and softly repeating, over and over again, the words of a little poem, with which, in childish festive fashion, he intended to welcome his father when he came home from his duties at noon. A friend of the family had written the verses, and Nannie and his mother had recited them to him so often that he knew them by heart. Suddenly, however, the little fellow stopped; his handsome, good-natured face was illumined with a smile, and he sprang up and knocked sharply on the window-pane. “Hey! Andreas,” he loudly cried; “Andreas, come in a little while. I am all alone.” The door was immediately opened, and a boy of Wolfgang’s age, Andreas Schachtner,[8] his devoted playmate, entered the room with a look of astonishment. “Why, Wolfgang, how is it you are so nicely dressed?” said he. “This is not Sunday, nor a feast day.” “No, but it is a birthday,” replied little Wolfgang, with an air of importance,—“father’s birthday. We are going to have cake and wine, Andreas! Just think how good they will taste!” “Yes, to you; but what does it matter to me?” said Andreas, trying to keep the tears back.