THE DROP OF WATER

　　IN the high-road which led through a wood stood a solitary1

　　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 coffin2; 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 withered3 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 sullen4 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 fixed5 the leaf to the student's cap in the green wood, when

　　they vowed6 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 smelt7 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 evergreen8 from the

　　flower-pot at the tavern9; and here is a simple blade of grass.

　　The lilac bends its fresh fragrant10 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 END