No More Learning

How delicate she was, and yet how
blooming! --a child, and yet a grown maiden! Her dress was fine as
silk, green as the freshly-opened leaves on the crown of the tree;
in her nut-brown hair clung a half-opened chestnut blossom. She looked
like the Goddess of Spring.

For one short minute she sat motionless; then she sprang up,
and, light as a gazelle, she hurried away. She ran and sprang like the
reflection from the mirror that, carried by the sunshine, is cast, now
here, now there. Could any one have followed her with his eyes, he
would have seen how marvellously her dress and her form changed,
according to the nature of the house or the place whose light happened
to shine upon her.

She reached the Boulevards. Here a sea of light streamed forth
from the gas-flames of the lamps, the shops and the cafes. Here
stood in a row young and slender trees, each of which concealed its
Dryad, and gave shade from the artificial sunlight. The whole vast
pavement was one great festive hall, where covered tables stood
laden with refreshments of all kinds, from champagne and Chartreuse
down to coffee and beer. Here was an exhibition of flowers, statues,
books, and colored stuffs.

From the crowd close by the lofty houses she looked forth over the
terrific stream beyond the rows of trees. Yonder heaved a stream of
rolling carriages, cabriolets, coaches, omnibuses, cabs, and among
them riding gentlemen and marching troops. To cross to the opposite
shore was an undertaking fraught with danger to life and limb. Now
lanterns shed their radiance abroad; now the gas had the upper hand;
suddenly a rocket rises! Whence? Whither?

Here are sounds of soft Italian melodies; yonder, Spanish songs
are sung, accompanied by the rattle of the castanets; but strongest of
all, and predominating over the rest, the street-organ tunes of the
moment, the exciting "Can-Can" music, which Orpheus never knew, and
which was never heard by the "Belle Helene. " Even the barrow was
tempted to hop upon one of its wheels.

The Dryad danced, floated, flew, changing her color every
moment, like a humming-bird in the sunshine; each house, with the
world belonging to it, gave her its own reflections.

As the glowing lotus-flower, torn from its stem, is carried away
by the stream, so the Dryad drifted along. Whenever she paused, she
was another being, so that none was able to follow her, to recognize
her, or to look more closely at her.

Like cloud-pictures, all things flew by her. She looked into a
thousand faces, but not one was familiar to her; she saw not a
single form from home. Two bright eyes had remained in her memory. She
thought of Mary, poor Mary, the ragged merry child, who wore the red
flowers in her black hair. Mary was now here, in the world-city,
rich and magnificent as in that day when she drove past the house of
the old clergyman, and past the tree of the Dryad, the old oak.

Here she was certainly living, in the deafening tumult. Perhaps
she had just stepped out of one of the gorgeous carriages in
waiting. Handsome equipages, with coachmen in gold braid and footmen
in silken hose, drove up. The people who alighted from them were all
richly-dressed ladies. They went through the opened gate, and ascended
the broad staircase that led to a building resting on marble
pillars. Was this building, perhaps, the wonder of the world? There
Mary would certainly be found.

"Sancta Maria! " resounded from the interior. Incense floated
through the lofty painted and gilded aisles, where a solemn twilight
reigned.

It was the Church of the Madeleine.

Clad in black garments of the most costly stuffs, fashioned
according to the latest mode, the rich feminine world of Paris
glided across the shining pavement. The crests of the proprietors were
engraved on silver shields on the velvet-bound prayer-books, and
embroidered in the corners of perfumed handkerchiefs bordered with
Brussels lace. A few of the ladies were kneeling in silent prayer
before the altars; others resorted to the confessionals.

Anxiety and fear took possession of the Dryad; she felt as if
she had entered a place where she had no right to be. Here was the
abode of silence, the hall of secrets. Everything was said in
whispers, every word was a mystery.

The Dryad saw herself enveloped in lace and silk, like the women
of wealth and of high birth around her. Had, perhaps, every one of
them a longing in her breast, like the Dryad?

A deep, painful sigh was heard. Did it escape from some
confessional in a distant corner, or from the bosom of the Dryad?
She drew the veil closer around her; she breathed incense, and not the
fresh air. Here was not the abiding-place of her longing.

Away! away--a hastening without rest. The ephemeral fly knows
not repose, for her existence is flight.

She was out again among the gas candelabra, by a magnificent
fountain.

"All its streaming waters are not able to wash out the innocent
blood that was spilt here. "

Such were the words spoken. Strangers stood around, carrying on
a lively conversation, such as no one would have dared to carry on
in the gorgeous hall of secrets whence the Dryad came.

A heavy stone slab was turned and then lifted. She did not
understand why. She saw an opening that led into the depths below. The
strangers stepped down, leaving the starlit air and the cheerful
life of the upper world behind them.

"I am afraid," said one of the women who stood around, to her
husband, "I cannot venture to go down, nor do I care for the wonders
down yonder. You had better stay here with me. "

"Indeed, and travel home," said the man, "and quit Paris without
having seen the most wonderful thing of all--the real wonder of the
present period, created by the power and resolution of one man! "

"I will not go down for all that," was the reply.

"The wonder of the present time," it had been called. The Dryad
had heard and had understood it. The goal of her ardent longing had
thus been reached, and here was the entrance to it. Down into the
depths below Paris? She had not thought of such a thing; but now she
heard it said, and saw the strangers descending, and went after them.

The staircase was of cast iron, spiral, broad and easy. Below
there burned a lamp, and farther down, another. They stood in a
labyrinth of endless halls and arched passages, all communicating with
each other. All the streets and lanes of Paris were to be seen here
again, as in a dim reflection. The names were painted up; and every
house above had its number down here also, and struck its roots
under the macadamized quays of a broad canal, in which the muddy water
flowed onward. Over it the fresh streaming water was carried on
arches; and quite at the top hung the tangled net of gas-pipes and
telegraph-wires.

In the distance lamps gleamed, like a reflection from the
world-city above. Every now and then a dull rumbling was heard. This
came from the heavy wagons rolling over the entrance bridges.

Whither had the Dryad come?

You have, no doubt, heard of the CATACOMBS? Now they are vanishing
points in that new underground world--that wonder of the present
day--the sewers of Paris. The Dryad was there, and not in the
world's Exhibition in the Champ de Mars.

She heard exclamations of wonder and admiration.

"From here go forth health and life for thousands upon thousands
up yonder! Our time is the time of progress, with its manifold
blessings. "

Such was the opinion and the speech of men; but not of those
creatures who had been born here, and who built and dwelt here--of the
rats, namely, who were squeaking to one another in the clefts of a
crumbling wall, quite plainly, and in a way the Dryad understood well.

A big old Father-Rat, with his tail bitten off, was relieving
his feelings in loud squeaks; and his family gave their tribute of
concurrence to every word he said:

"I am disgusted with this man-mewing," he cried--"with these
outbursts of ignorance. A fine magnificence, truly! all made up of gas
and petroleum! I can't eat such stuff as that. Everything here is so
fine and bright now, that one's ashamed of one's self, without exactly
knowing why. Ah, if we only lived in the days of tallow candles! and
it does not lie so very far behind us. That was a romantic time, as
one may say. "

"What are you talking of there? " asked the Dryad. "I have never
seen you before. What is it you are talking about? "

"Of the glorious days that are gone," said the Rat--"of the
happy time of our great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers. Then it
was a great thing to get down here. That was a rat's nest quite
different from Paris. Mother Plague used to live here then; she killed
people, but never rats. Robbers and smugglers could breathe freely
here. Here was the meeting-place of the most interesting personages,
whom one now only gets to see in the theatres where they act
melodrama, up above. The time of romance is gone even in our rat's
nest; and here also fresh air and petroleum have broken in. "

Thus squeaked the Rat; he squeaked in honor of the old time,
when Mother Plague was still alive.

A carriage stopped, a kind of open omnibus, drawn by swift horses.
The company mounted and drove away along the Boulevard de
Sebastopol, that is to say, the underground boulevard, over which
the well-known crowded street of that name extended.

The carriage disappeared in the twilight; the Dryad disappeared,
lifted to the cheerful freshness above. Here, and not below in the
vaulted passages, filled with heavy air, the wonder work must be found
which she was to seek in her short lifetime. It must gleam brighter
than all the gas-flames, stronger than the moon that was just
gliding past.

Yes, certainly, she saw it yonder in the distance, it gleamed
before her, and twinkled and glittered like the evening star in the
sky.

She saw a glittering portal open, that led to a little garden,
where all was brightness and dance music. Colored lamps surrounded
little lakes, in which were water-plants of colored metal, from
whose flowers jets of water spurted up. Beautiful weeping willows,
real products of spring, hung their fresh branches over these lakes
like a fresh, green, transparent, and yet screening veil. In the
bushes burnt an open fire, throwing a red twilight over the quiet huts
of branches, into which the sounds of music penetrated--an ear
tickling, intoxicating music, that sent the blood coursing through the
veins.

Beautiful girls in festive attire, with pleasant smiles on their
lips, and the light spirit of youth in their hearts--"Marys," with
roses in their hair, but without carriage and postilion--flitted to
and fro in the wild dance.

Where were the heads, where the feet? As if stung by tarantulas,
they sprang, laughed, rejoiced, as if in their ecstacies they were
going to embrace all the world.

The Dryad felt herself torn with them into the whirl of the dance.
Round her delicate foot clung the silken boot, chestnut brown in
color, like the ribbon that floated from her hair down upon her bare
shoulders. The green silk dress waved in large folds, but did not
entirely hide the pretty foot and ankle.

Had she come to the enchanted Garden of Armida? What was the
name of the place?

The name glittered in gas-jets over the entrance. It was
"Mabille. "

The soaring upwards of rockets, the splashing of fountains, and
the popping of champagne corks accompanied the wild bacchantic
dance. Over the whole glided the moon through the air, clear, but with
a somewhat crooked face.

A wild joviality seemed to rush through the Dryad, as though she
were intoxicated with opium. Her eyes spoke, her lips spoke, but the
sound of violins and of flutes drowned the sound of her voice. Her
partner whispered words to her which she did not understand, nor do we
understand them. He stretched out his arms to draw her to him, but
he embraced only the empty air.

The Dryad had been carried away, like a rose-leaf on the wind.
Before her she saw a flame in the air, a flashing light high up on a
tower. The beacon light shone from the goal of her longing, shone from
the red lighthouse tower of the Fata Morgana of the Champ de Mars.
Thither she was carried by the wind. She circled round the tower;
the workmen thought it was a butterfly that had come too early, and
that now sank down dying.

The moon shone bright, gas-lamps spread light around, through
the halls, over the all-world's buildings scattered about, over the
rose-hills and the rocks produced by human ingenuity, from which
waterfalls, driven by the power of "Master Bloodless," fell down.
The caverns of the sea, the depths of the lakes, the kingdom of the
fishes were opened here. Men walked as in the depths of the deep pond,
and held converse with the sea, in the diving-bell of glass. The water
pressed against the strong glass walls above and on every side. The
polypi, eel-like living creatures, had fastened themselves to the
bottom, and stretched out arms, fathoms long, for prey. A big turbot
was making himself broad in front, quietly enough, but not without
casting some suspicious glances aside. A crab clambered over him,
looking like a gigantic spider, while the shrimps wandered about in
restless haste, like the butterflies and moths of the sea.

In the fresh water grew water-lilies, nymphaea, and reeds; the
gold-fishes stood up below in rank and file, all turning their heads
one way, that the streaming water might flow into their mouths. Fat
carps stared at the glass wall with stupid eyes. They knew that they
were here to be exhibited, and that they had made the somewhat
toilsome journey hither in tubs filled with water; and they thought
with dismay of the land-sickness from which they had suffered so
cruelly on the railway.

They had come to see the Exhibition, and now contemplated it
from their fresh or salt-water position. They looked attentively at
the crowds of people who passed by them early and late. All the
nations in the world, they thought, had made an exhibition of their
inhabitants, for the edification of the soles and haddocks, pike and
carp, that they might give their opinions upon the different kinds.

"Those are scaly animals" said a little slimy Whiting. "They put
on different scales two or three times a day, and they emit sounds
which they call speaking. We don't put on scales, and we make
ourselves understood in an easier way, simply by twitching the corners
of our mouths and staring with our eyes. We have a great many
advantages over mankind. "

"But they have learned swimming of us," remarked a well-educated
Codling. "You must know I come from the great sea outside. In the
hot time of the year the people yonder go into the water; first they
take off their scales, and then they swim. They have learnt from the
frogs to kick out with their hind legs, and row with their fore
paws. But they cannot hold out long. They want to be like us, but they
cannot come up to us. Poor people! "

And the fishes stared. They thought that the whole swarm of people
whom they had seen in the bright daylight were still moving around
them; they were certain they still saw the same forms that had first
caught their attention.

A pretty Barbel, with spotted skin, and an enviably round back,
declared that the "human fry" were still there.

"I can see a well set-up human figure quite well," said the
Barbel. "She was called 'contumacious lady,' or something of that
kind. She had a mouth and staring eyes, like ours, and a great balloon
at the back of her head, and something like a shut-up umbrella in
front; there were a lot of dangling bits of seaweed hanging about her.
She ought to take all the rubbish off, and go as we do; then she would
look something like a respectable barbel, so far as it is possible for
a person to look like one! "

"What's become of that one whom they drew away with the hook? He
sat on a wheel-chair, and had paper, and pen, and ink, and wrote
down everything. They called him a 'writer. '"

"They're going about with him still," said a hoary old maid of a
Carp, who carried her misfortune about with her, so that she was quite
hoarse. In her youth she had once swallowed a hook, and still swam
patiently about with it in her gullet. "A writer? That means, as we
fishes describe it, a kind of cuttle or ink-fish among men. "

Thus the fishes gossipped in their own way; but in the
artificial water-grotto the laborers were busy; who were obliged to
take advantage of the hours of night to get their work done by
daybreak. They accompanied with blows of their hammers and with
songs the parting words of the vanishing Dryad.

"So, at any rate, I have seen you, you pretty gold-fishes," she
said. "Yes, I know you;" and she waved her hand to them. "I have known
about you a long time in my home; the swallow told me about you. How
beautiful you are! how delicate and shining! I should like to kiss
every one of you. You others, also. I know you all; but you do not
know me. "

The fishes stared out into the twilight. They did not understand a
word of it.

The Dryad was there no longer. She had been a long time in the
open air, where the different countries--the country of black bread,
the codfish coast, the kingdom of Russia leather, and the banks of
eau-de-Cologne, and the gardens of rose oil--exhaled their perfumes
from the world-wonder flower.

When, after a night at a ball, we drive home half asleep and
half awake, the melodies still sound plainly in our ears; we hear
them, and could sing them all from memory. When the eye of the
murdered man closes, the picture of what it saw last clings to it
for a time like a photographic picture.

So it was likewise here. The bustling life of day had not yet
disappeared in the quiet night. The Dryad had seen it; she knew,
thus it will be repeated tomorrow.

The Dryad stood among the fragrant roses, and thought she knew
them, and had seen them in her own home. She also saw red
pomegranate flowers, like those that little Mary had worn in her
dark hair.

Remembrances from the home of her childhood flashed through her
thoughts; her eyes eagerly drank in the prospect around, and
feverish restlessness chased her through the wonder-filled halls.

A weariness that increased continually, took possession of her.
She felt a longing to rest on the soft Oriental carpets within, or
to lean against the weeping willow without by the clear water. But for
the ephemeral fly there was no rest. In a few moments the day had
completed its circle.

Her thoughts trembled, her limbs trembled, she sank down on the
grass by the bubbling water.

"Thou wilt ever spring living from the earth," she said
mournfully. "Moisten my tongue--bring me a refreshing draught. "

"I am no living water," was the answer. "I only spring upward when
the machine wills it. "

"Give me something of thy freshness, thou green grass," implored
the Dryad; "give me one of thy fragrant flowers. "

"We must die if we are torn from our stalks," replied the
Flowers and the Grass.

"Give me a kiss, thou fresh stream of air--only a single
life-kiss. "

"Soon the sun will kiss the clouds red," answered the Wind;
"then thou wilt be among the dead--blown away, as all the splendor
here will be blown away before the year shall have ended. Then I can
play again with the light loose sand on the place here, and whirl
the dust over the land and through the air. All is dust! "

The Dryad felt a terror like a woman who has cut asunder her
pulse-artery in the bath, but is filled again with the love of life,
even while she is bleeding to death. She raised herself, tottered
forward a few steps, and sank down again at the entrance to a little
church. The gate stood open, lights were burning upon the altar, and
the organ sounded.

What music! Such notes the Dryad had never yet heard; and yet it
seemed to her as if she recognized a number of well-known voices among
them. They came deep from the heart of all creation. She thought she
heard the stories of the old clergyman, of great deeds, and of the
celebrated names, and of the gifts that the creatures of God must
bestow upon posterity, if they would live on in the world.

The tones of the organ swelled, and in their song there sounded
these words:

"Thy wishing and thy longing have torn thee, with thy roots,
from the place which God appointed for thee. That was thy destruction,
thou poor Dryad! "

The notes became soft and gentle, and seemed to die away in a
wail.

In the sky the clouds showed themselves with a ruddy gleam. The
Wind sighed:

"Pass away, ye dead! now the sun is going to rise! "

The first ray fell on the Dryad. Her form was irradiated in
changing colors, like the soap-bubble when it is bursting and
becomes a drop of water; like a tear that falls and passes away like a
vapor.

Poor Dryad! Only a dew-drop, only a tear, poured upon the earth,
and vanished away!




JACK THE DULLARD

AN OLD STORY TOLD ANEW

Far in the interior of the country lay an old baronial hall, and
in it lived an old proprietor, who had two sons, which two young men
thought themselves too clever by half. They wanted to go out and woo
the King's daughter; for the maiden in question had publicly announced
that she would choose for her husband that youth who could arrange his
words best.

So these two geniuses prepared themselves a full week for the
wooing--this was the longest time that could be granted them; but it
was enough, for they had had much preparatory information, and
everybody knows how useful that is. One of them knew the whole Latin
dictionary by heart, and three whole years of the daily paper of the
little town into the bargain, and so well, indeed, that he could
repeat it all either backwards or forwards, just as he chose. The
other was deeply read in the corporation laws, and knew by heart
what every corporation ought to know; and accordingly he thought he
could talk of affairs of state, and put his spoke in the wheel in
the council. And he knew one thing more: he could embroider suspenders
with roses and other flowers, and with arabesques, for he was a tasty,
light-fingered fellow.

"I shall win the Princess! " So cried both of them. Therefore their
old papa gave to each of them a handsome horse. The youth who knew the
dictionary and newspaper by heart had a black horse, and he who knew
all about the corporation laws received a milk-white steed. Then
they rubbed the corners of their mouths with fish-oil, so that they
might become very smooth and glib. All the servants stood below in the
courtyard, and looked on while they mounted their horses; and just
by chance the third son came up. For the proprietor had really three
sons, though nobody counted the third with his brothers, because he
was not so learned as they, and indeed he was generally known as "Jack
the Dullard. "

"Hallo! " said Jack the Dullard, "where are you going? I declare
you have put on your Sunday clothes! "

"We're going to the King's court, as suitors to the King's
daughter. Don't you know the announcement that has been made all
through the country? " And they told him all about it.

"My word! I'll be in it too! " cried Jack the Dullard; and his
two brothers burst out laughing at him, and rode away.

"Father, dear," said Jack, "I must have a horse too. I do feel
so desperately inclined to marry! If she accepts me, she accepts me;
and if she won't have me, I'll have her; but she shall be mine! "

"Don't talk nonsense," replied the old gentleman. "You shall
have no horse from me. You don't know how to speak--you can't
arrange your words. Your brothers are very different fellows from
you. "

"Well," quoth Jack the Dullard, "If I can't have a horse, I'll
take the Billy-goat, who belongs to me, and he can carry me very
well! "

And so said, so done. He mounted the Billy-goat, pressed his heels
into its sides, and galloped down the high street like a hurricane.

"Hei, houp! that was a ride! Here I come! " shouted Jack the
Dullard, and he sang till his voice echoed far and wide.

But his brothers rode slowly on in advance of him. They spoke
not a word, for they were thinking about the fine extempore speeches
they would have to bring out, and these had to be cleverly prepared
beforehand.

"Hallo! " shouted Jack the Dullard. "Here am I! Look what I have
found on the high road. " And he showed them what it was, and it was
a dead crow.

"Dullard! " exclaimed the brothers, "what are you going to do
with that? "

"With the crow? why, I am going to give it to the Princess. "

"Yes, do so," said they; and they laughed, and rode on.

"Hallo, here I am again! just see what I have found now: you don't
find that on the high road every day! "

And the brothers turned round to see what he could have found now.

"Dullard! " they cried, "that is only an old wooden shoe, and the
upper part is missing into the bargain; are you going to give that
also to the Princess? "

"Most certainly I shall," replied Jack the Dullard; and again
the brothers laughed and rode on, and thus they got far in advance
of him; but--

"Hallo--hop rara! " and there was Jack the Dullard again. "It is
getting better and better," he cried. "Hurrah! it is quite famous. "

"Why, what have you found this time? " inquired the brothers.

"Oh," said Jack the Dullard, "I can hardly tell you. How glad
the Princess will be! "

"Bah! " said the brothers; "that is nothing but clay out of the
ditch. "

"Yes, certainly it is," said Jack the Dullard; "and clay of the
finest sort. See, it is so wet, it runs through one's fingers. " And he
filled his pocket with the clay.

But his brothers galloped on till the sparks flew, and
consequently they arrived a full hour earlier at the town gate than
could Jack. Now at the gate each suitor was provided with a number,
and all were placed in rows immediately on their arrival, six in
each row, and so closely packed together that they could not move
their arms; and that was a prudent arrangement, for they would
certainly have come to blows, had they been able, merely because one
of them stood before the other.

All the inhabitants of the country round about stood in great
crowds around the castle, almost under the very windows, to see the
Princess receive the suitors; and as each stepped into the hall, his
power of speech seemed to desert him, like the light of a candle
that is blown out. Then the Princess would say, "He is of no use! Away
with him out of the hall! "

At last the turn came for that brother who knew the dictionary
by heart; but he did not know it now; he had absolutely forgotten it
altogether; and the boards seemed to re-echo with his footsteps, and
the ceiling of the hall was made of looking-glass, so that he saw
himself standing on his head; and at the window stood three clerks and
a head clerk, and every one of them was writing down every single word
that was uttered, so that it might be printed in the newspapers, and
sold for a penny at the street corners. It was a terrible ordeal,
and they had, moreover, made such a fire in the stove, that the room
seemed quite red hot.

"It is dreadfully hot here! " observed the first brother.

"Yes," replied the Princess, "my father is going to roast young
pullets today. "

"Baa! " there he stood like a baa-lamb. He had not been prepared
for a speech of this kind, and had not a word to say, though he
intended to say something witty. "Baa! "

"He is of no use! " said the Princess. "Away with him! "

And he was obliged to go accordingly. And now the second brother
came in.

"It is terribly warm here! " he observed.

"Yes, we're roasting pullets to-day," replied the Princess.

"What--what were you--were you pleased to ob-" stammered he--and
all the clerks wrote down, "pleased to ob-"

"He is of no use! " said the Princess. "Away with him! "

Now came the turn of Jack the Dullard. He rode into the hall on
his goat.

"Well, it's most abominably hot here. "

"Yes, because I'm roasting young pullets," replied the Princess.

"Ah, that's lucky! " exclaimed Jack the Dullard, "for I suppose
you'll let me roast my crow at the same time? "

"With the greatest pleasure," said the Princess. "But have you
anything you can roast it in? for I have neither pot nor pan. "

"Certainly I have! " said Jack. "Here's a cooking utensil with a
tin handle. "

And he brought out the old wooden shoe, and put the crow into it.

"Well, that is a famous dish! " said the Princess. "But what
shall we do for sauce? "

"Oh, I have that in my pocket," said Jack; "I have so much of it
that I can afford to throw some away;" and he poured some of the
clay out of his pocket.

"I like that! " said the Princess. "You can give an answer, and you
have something to say for yourself, and so you shall be my husband.
But are you aware that every word we speak is being taken down, and
will be published in the paper to-morrow? Look yonder, and you will
see in every window three clerks and a head clerk; and the old head
clerk is the worst of all, for he can't understand anything. "

But she only said this to frighten Jack the Dullard; and the
clerks gave a great crow of delight, and each one spurted a blot out
of his pen on to the floor.

"Oh, those are the gentlemen, are they? " said Jack; "then I will
give the best I have to the head clerk. " And he turned out his
pockets, and flung the wet clay full in the head clerk's face.

"That was very cleverly done," observed the Princess. "I could not
have done that; but I shall learn in time. "

And accordingly Jack the Dullard was made a king, and received a
crown and a wife, and sat upon a throne. And this report we have wet
from the press of the head clerk and the corporation of printers--but
they are not to be depended upon in the least.




THE DUMB BOOK

In the high-road which led through a wood stood a solitary
farm-house; the road, in fact, ran right through its yard. The sun was
shining and all the windows were open; within the house people were
very busy. In the yard, in an arbour formed by lilac bushes in full
bloom, stood an open coffin; thither they had carried a dead man,
who was to be buried that 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 thick book, the leaves of which consisted of folded
sheets of blotting-paper, and withered flowers lay between them; it
was the herbarium which he had gathered in various places and was to
be buried with him, according to his own wish. Every one of the
flowers in it was connected with some 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; then something 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 the sullen mood did not come over him; but
when it came he was fierce, became as strong as a giant, and ran about
in the wood like a chased deer. But when we succeeded in bringing
him home, and prevailed upon him to open the book with the dried-up
plants in it, he would sometimes sit for a whole day looking at this
or that plant, while frequently the tears rolled over his cheeks.
God knows what was in his mind; but he requested us to put the book
into his coffin, and now he lies there. In a little while the lid will
be placed upon the coffin, and he will have sweet rest in the grave! "

The cloth which covered his face was lifted up; the dead man's
face expressed peace--a sunbeam fell upon it. A swallow flew with
the swiftness of an arrow into the arbour, turning in 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 young days; a different life rises up out
of the past, as it were, with all its hopes and sorrows. How many of
the people with whom in those days we used to be on intimate terms
appear to us as if 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 and sorrow with
them.

The withered oak leaf in the book here recalled the friend, the
schoolfellow, who was to be his friend for life. He fixed the leaf
to the student's cap in the green wood, when they vowed eternal
friendship. Where does he dwell now? The leaf is kept, but the
friendship does no longer exist. Here is a foreign hothouse plant, too
tender for the gardens of the North. It is almost as if its leaves
still smelt sweet! She gave it to him out of her own garden--a
nobleman's daughter.

Here is a water-lily that he had plucked himself, and watered with
salt tears--a lily of sweet water. And here is a nettle: what may
its leaves tell us? What might he have thought when he plucked and
kept it? Here is a little snowdrop out of the solitary wood; here is
an evergreen 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 passes again--"twit, twit;" now the men come with
hammer and nails, the lid is placed over the dead man, while his
head rests on the dumb book--so long cherished, now closed for ever!




THE ELF OF THE ROSE

In the midst of a garden grew a rose-tree, in full blossom, and in
the prettiest of all the roses lived an elf. He was such a little
wee thing, that no human eye could see him. Behind each leaf of the
rose he had a sleeping chamber. He was as well formed and as beautiful
as a little child could be, and had wings that reached from his
shoulders to his feet. Oh, what sweet fragrance there was in his
chambers! and how clean and beautiful were the walls! for they were
the blushing leaves of the rose.

During the whole day he enjoyed himself in the warm sunshine, flew
from flower to flower, and danced on the wings of the flying
butterflies. Then he took it into his head to measure how many steps
he would have to go through the roads and cross-roads that are on
the leaf of a linden-tree. What we call the veins on a leaf, he took
for roads; ay, and very long roads they were for him; for before he
had half finished his task, the sun went down: he had commenced his
work too late. It became very cold, the dew fell, and the wind blew;
so he thought the best thing he could do would be to return home. He
hurried himself as much as he could; but he found the roses all closed
up, and he could not get in; not a single rose stood open. The poor
little elf was very much frightened. He had never before been out at
night, but had always slumbered secretly behind the warm
rose-leaves. Oh, this would certainly be his death. At the other end
of the garden, he knew there was an arbor, overgrown with beautiful
honey-suckles. The blossoms looked like large painted horns; and he
thought to himself, he would go and sleep in one of these till the
morning. He flew thither; but "hush!