was covered with a white cloth, and
under his head there lay a large, thick book, every leaf of which was
a whole sheet of grey paper, and between each lay withered flowers,
deposited and forgotten--a whole herbarium, gathered in different
places. He himself had requested that it should be laid in the grave
with him. A chapter of his life was blended with every flower.

"Who is that dead man?" we asked, and the answer was: "The old student
from Upsala. They say he was once very clever; he knew the learned
languages, could sing and write verses too; but then there was
something that went wrong, and so he gave both his thoughts and
himself up to drinking spirits, and as his health suffered by it, he
came out here into the country, where they paid for his board and
lodging.

"He was as gentle as a child, when the dark humour did not come over
him, for then he was strong, and ran about in the forest like a hunted
deer; but when we got him home, we persuaded him to look into the book
with the dry plants. Then he would sit the whole day and look at one
plant, and then at another, and many a time the tears ran down his
cheeks. God knows what he then thought! But he begged that he might
have the book with him in his coffin; and now it lies there, and the
lid will soon be fastened down, and then he will take his peaceful
rest in the grave!"

They raised the winding-sheet. There was peace in the face of the
dead: a sunbeam fell on it; a swallow in its arrowy flight, darted
into the new-made arbour, and in its flight circled twittering over
the dead man's head.

How strange it is!--we all assuredly know it--to take out old letters
from the days of our youth and read them: a whole life, as it were,
then rises up with all its hopes, and all its troubles. How many of
those with whom we, in their time, lived so devotedly, are now even as
the dead to us, and yet they still live! But we have not thought of
them for many years--them whom we once thought we should always cling
to, and share our mutual joys and sorrows with.

The withered oak-leaf in the book here, is a memorial of the
friend--the friend of his school-days--the friend for life. He fixed
this leaf on the student's cap in the green wood, when the vow of
friendship was concluded for the whole of life. Where does he now
live? The leaf is preserved; friendship forgotten. Here is a foreign
conservatory-plant, too fine for the gardens of the North--it looks as
if there st