On the 5th of December, 1791, the master passed away. No stone marked Mozart's grave, and to-day no one knows where the great composer was laid to rest. More than a century after his death, the people of his own city erected a fine monument in his memory. When Haydn heard of Mozart's death, his eyes filled with tears. He exclaimed, "Oh, my friends, will the world ever find such an artist again?" Years afterward, when some one spoke of Mozart, Haydn wept bitterly. "Pardon me," said he, "but I can never hear the name of my gentle Mozart without breaking my heart." FRANCIS JOSEPH HAYDN (1732-1809) THE CHOIR BOY Once upon a time there lived, in a tiny village in Austria, a wheelwright and his family. The wheelwright was poor, industrious, and God-fearing. He lived in a cottage which seemed almost too small for the large family of children. But they were so happy together that they did not mind a little crowding. The second of the Haydn children was a boy, whom the good old village priest had christened Francis Joseph. He lived a merry life, romping with his brothers and sisters. They liked to play about the door of the shop where their father was making wheels and carriages. [Illustration: FRANCIS JOSEPH HAYDN] Better than this, they liked the Sundays, when the good father was at home all day. After dinner they were sure to have some music, and Joseph looked forward eagerly to this time. The father had a good voice, and well did he sing the native songs of his country. Although he sang well, he did not know one note of music from another. The wheelwright's wife played the harp while her husband sang. Little Joseph used to bring his stool close beside his mother to listen as she played. Sometimes he kept the time by clapping with his chubby little hands. Sometimes he joined his sweet childish voice with his father's. When Joseph Haydn was still very small, he was sent toddling off to school. When lessons were over and all the rest of the children scampered to their play, Joseph lingered in the schoolroom. His eyes grew round with wonder as the master played upon his violin. "That is easy," thought the boy; "I will find two smooth pieces of wood and make myself a violin." And he did. At the next Sunday afternoon concert Joseph took his place as usual on his little stool; but he carried the violin, which he had made, in his hands. At the first notes from the harp he began to move one piece of wood across the other in perfect time with the music. Before Joseph was quite six years old, he was able to stand up in the choir of the old village church and lead the singing. His voice was not strong, but it was true and sweet. The father was proud of his son. He said to himself: "The boy must be taught music. Perhaps some day he will become a great musician. If I were not so poor, I should send him to a teacher."