IN the high-road which led through a wood stooda solitary farm-house; the road， in fact， ran rightthrough its yard. The sun was shining and all thewindows were open; within the house people werevery busy. In the yard， in an arbour formed by lilacbushes in full bloom， stood an open coffin; thitherthey had carried a dead man， who was to be buriedthat very afternoon. Nobody shed a tear over him;his face was covered over with a white cloth， under his head they had placed a large thickbook， the leaves of which consisted of folded sheets of blotting-paper， and withered flowerslay between them; it was the herbarium which he had gathered in various places and was to beburied with him， according to his own wish. Every one of the flowers in it was connected withsome chapter of his life.
“Who is the dead man?” we asked.
“the old student，” was the reply. “They say that he was once an energetic young man，that he studied the dead languages， and sang and even composed many songs; thensomething had happened to him， and in consequence of this he gave himself up to drink，body and mind. When at last he had ruined his health， they brought him into the country，where someone paid for his board and residence. He was gentle as a child as long as thesullen mood did not come over him; but when it came he was fierce， became as strong as agiant， and ran about in the wood like a chased deer. But when we succeeded in bringing himhome， and prevailed upon him to open the book with the dried-up plants in it， he wouldsometimes sit for a whole day looking at this or that plant， while frequently the tears rolledover his cheeks. God knows what was in his mind; but he requested us to put the book intohis coffin， and now he lies there. In a little while the lid will be placed upon the coffin， and hewill have sweet rest in the grave!”
the cloth which covered his face was lifted up; the dead man's face expressed peace—asunbeam fell upon it. A swallow flew with the swiftness of an arrow into the arbour， turningin its flight， and twittered over the dead man's head.
What a strange feeling it is—surely we all know it—to look through old letters of our youngdays; a different life rises up out of the past， as it were， with all its hopes and sorrows. Howmany of the people with whom in those days we used to be on intimate terms appear to us asif dead， and yet they are still alive—only we have not thought of them for such a long time，whom we imagined we should retain in our memories for ever， and share every joy andsorrow with them.
the withered oak leaf in the book here recalled the friend， the schoolfellow， who was tobe his friend for life. He fixed the leaf to the student's cap in the GREen wood， when theyvowed eternal friendship. Where does he dwell now? The leaf is kept， but the friendship doesno longer exist. Here is a foreign hothouse plant， too tender for the gardens of the North. Itis almost as if its leaves still smelt sweet! She gave it to him out of her own garden—anobleman's daughter.
Here is a water-lily that he had plucked himself， and watered with salt tears—a lily ofsweet water. And here is a nettle： what may its leaves tell us? What might he have thoughtwhen he plucked and kept it? Here is a little snowdrop out of the solitary wood; here is aneverGREen from the flower-pot at the tavern; and here is a simple blade of grass.
the lilac bends its fresh fragrant flowers over the dead man's head; the swallow passesagain—“twit， twit;” now the men come with hammer and nails， the lid is placed over thedead man， while his head rests on the dumb book—so long cherished， now closed for ever!