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