When Master M. had eaten and slept and kicked and cried for sixteen days longer, his parents took him to the priest, and to the teacher, and promised that he should be instructed by these worthy gentlemen in war, politics, religion, and other branches of general education.  They promised that he should be an Alfalqui, or priest, and should also serve in the army as a soldier.  In that little, wiggling baby, that seemed all fists and mouth, it was impossible to foresee the future Emperor of Mexico, whose name has since become familiar to the civilized world.

Young Master M. worried along pretty well, and up to six years of age had done nothing remarkable.  At this age he was granted one and one-half rolls at a meal, and commenced doing little errands and picking up scattered beans and corn in the Tianquez, which is what the Mexicans called the market-place.

The restless spirit of a military chieftain now began to show itself in the embryo warrior, and, by the time he had reached his eighth year, discipline became necessary to curb his growing inclination to despotism.  He was fast becoming one of that class of boys who think “it’s too bad to be good all the time.”  In the second picture see the scalding tears!  Whether Master M. is sorry that he has done wrong, or whether he only fears being pricked with those terrible thorns of the aloe with which he is threatened, or is crying because he is cold, who shall tell?  It is hard, sometimes, to tell what eight-year-old boys are crying for, whether they live in the United States or in Mexico.

Master M. may have been better than most boys, and it may be that his father was a better driver than leader for his little ones.  Some fathers are.  In any event, when Master M. was ten years old there came another opportunity for weeping and wailing, and Master M. was submitted to the mortification of lying on the damp ground all day while he listened to a parental lecture; and this, too, after he was twelve years old!

Then Master M. reformed, and became an industrious, faithful boy.  I have sometimes questioned whether he wasn’t hungry, and if he had been better fed whether he would not have done better.  At fourteen years of age they gave him two rolls at a meal, and he was instructed in the art of fishing with a net.  You can tell how old the boy is by the number of round marks in the picture, and the person who is speaking is denoted by a tongue in front of the mouth.

When his fifteenth year came, Master M. found he would have plenty to do.  After this, old Mr. M. had no trouble with him.  It is curious—­the more we have to do, the less liable we are to do something we should not, and—­let us all study on that half an hour, some day, and see what we can make of it.

[Illustration:  MASTER MONTEZUMA’S PARENTS TAKE HIM TO THE PRIEST AND THE TEACHER.]

He had two teachers, the priest and the military professor.  It seemed as if everything was to be learned.  There was arithmetic, he learned to make figures.  A round, blue dot stands for one.