inking of? Shall I tell you? The glove was
lying there, pointing with its little finger at the tree. 'I'm sorry
for the tree,' it thought; 'and I was also at the feast, where the
chandeliers glittered. My life was, so to speak, a ball-night: a
pressure of the hand, and I burst! My memory keeps dwelling upon that,
and I have really nothing else to live for!' This is what the glove
thought, or what it might have thought. 'That's a stupid affair with
yonder fir tree,' said the potsherds. You see, potsherds think
everything is stupid. 'When one is in the dust-cart,' they said, 'one
ought not to give one's self airs and wear tinsel. I know that I have
been useful in the world, far more useful than such a green stick.'
That was a view that might be taken, and I don't think it quite a
peculiar one; but for all that the fir tree looked very well: it was
like a little poetry in the dust-heap; and truly there is dust enough
in the streets on moving-day. The way is difficult and troublesome
then, and I feel obliged to run away out of the confusion; or if I am
on the tower, I stay there and look down, and it is amusing enough.

[Illustration: THE REJECTED TRAVELLER.]

"There are the good people below, playing at 'changing houses.' They
toil and tug away with their goods and chattels, and the household
goblin sits in an old tub and moves with them; all the little griefs
of the lodging and the family, and the real cares and sorrows, move
with them out of the old dwelling into the new; and what gain is there
for them or for us in the whole affair? Yes, there was written long
ago the good old maxim: 'Think on the great moving-day of death!'
That is a serious thought; I hope it is not disagreeable to you that
I should have touched upon it? Death is the most certain messenger
after all, in spite of his various occupations. Yes, Death is the
omnibus conductor, and he is the passport writer, and he countersigns
our service-book, and he is director of the savings bank of life. Do
you understand me? All the deeds of our life, the great and the little
alike, we put into this savings bank; and when Death calls with his
omnibus, and we have to step in, and drive with him into the land of
eternity, then on the frontier he gives us our service-book as a pass.
As a provision for the journey he takes this or that good deed we have
done, and lets it accompany us; and this may be very pleasant or very
terrific. Nobody has ever escaped this omnibus j