CHAPTER XIII.
"I am eighteen years old to-day," said Karl to his father, who was sitting at home one Sunday morning, never weary of contemplating the handsome youth.
"So you are," replied the father; "there are eighteen tapers round the cake." "Therefore, father," Karl went on, "it is time that I should turn to, something, and make some money.

I will be a porter." "Make some money!" repeated old Sturm, looking at his son in amazement.
"Do I not make as much, and more than we want?
Why, you are going to turn a miser!" "I can't always hang to your apron," said Karl; "and if you were to earn a thousand dollars, would that make an active, useful man of me?
Or, if I were to lose you, what would become of me ?" "You will lose me, boy," said the giant, nodding, "in a few years, perhaps, and then you may become what you like, so it be not a porter." "But why should I not be what you are?
Do not be unreasonable." "You know nothing about the matter.

Do not be covetous; I can not bear covetous people." "But, father, if I am not to be a porter, I must learn _something_," cried Karl.
"Learn!" exclaimed his father; "how much learning have you not had stuffed into your little head already! Two years at the infant school, four at the city school, two at the industrial.

Why, you have had eight years' schooling, and you know the different goods as well as a clerk.
Why, you are an insatiable youth." "Yes; but I must have a calling," replied Karl.

"I must be a shoemaker, tailor, shopkeeper, or mechanic." "Don't tease yourself about that," said his father; "I have provided for all that in your education.