he had too little in common, who had not
honored him with even a single reproach, who did not even despise him,
who simply took no pleasure in him--was wearisome to him, and parting
from David gave him no especial uneasiness. This separation, of
course, nearly broke my heart: at first I was really bereaved, and I
felt as if I had lost every comfort and joy in life.

So my uncle went off and took with him not only David, but, to our
great surprise, and even to the great dissatisfaction of our street,
Raissa and her little sister. When my aunt heard of this she called
him a Turk, and a Turk she called him till her death.

And I was left alone, alone, but it makes no difference about me.

XXV.

That is the end of my story about the watch. What shall I add to it?
Five years later David married "Little Black-lip," and in the year
1812 he died, a lieutenant in the artillery, the death of a hero at
the battle of Borodino, defending the redoubt of Schewardino. Since
then a great deal of water has run into the sea, and I have had many
watches: I have even been so magnificent as to have a real Breguet
repeater with second-hand and the day of the month. But in the secret
drawer of my desk lies an old silver watch with a rose on the case: I
bought it of a Jew peddler, struck by its resemblance to the watch my
godfather gave me. From time to time, when I am alone and expect no
visitor, I take it out of its case, and when I look at it I think
of my youth and the companions of those days which are gone never to
return.

TRANSLATIONS FROM HEINE.

I.--CHILDE HAROLD.

Lo, a large, black-shrouded barge
Sadly moves with sails outspread,
And mute creatures' muffled features
Hold grim watch above the dead.

Calm below it lies the poet,
With his fair face bare and white,
Still with yearning ever turning
Azure eyes toward heaven's light.

As he saileth, sadly waileth
Some bereaven Undine bride:
O'er the springing waves outringing,
Hark! a dirge floats far and wide.

II.--SPRING FESTIVAL.

This is the springtide's mournful feast:
The frantic troops of blooming girls
Are rushing hither with flying curls:
Moaning they smite their bare white breast,
Adonis! Adonis!

The night hath come. By the torches' gleams
They search the forest on every side,
That echoes with anguish far and wide,
With tears, mad laughter, and sobs and screams,