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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 fixed the leaf
to the student's cap in the green wood, when they vowed 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 smelt sweet! She gave it to him out of her own garden- a
nobleman's daughter.
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This is wonderful luck!" And sure enough the most
beautiful stories and poetry were written upon it, and only once was
there a blot, which was very fortunate. Then people heard the
stories and poetry read, and it made them wiser and better; for all
that was written had a good and sensible meaning, and a great blessing
was contained in the words on this paper.
"I never imagined anything like this," said the paper, "when I was
only a little blue flower, growing in the fields. How could I fancy
that I should ever be the means of bringing knowledge and joy to
man? I cannot understand it myself, and yet it is really so.
How could I fancy
that I should ever be the means of bringing knowledge and joy to
man? I cannot understand it myself, and yet it is really so. Heaven
knows that I have done nothing myself, but what I was obliged to do
with my weak powers for my own preservation; and yet I have been
promoted from one joy and honor to another. Each time I think that the
song is ended; and then something higher and better begins for me. I
suppose now I shall be sent on my travels about the world, so that
people may read me.
It cannot be otherwise; indeed, it is more than
probable; for I have more splendid thoughts written upon me, than I
had pretty flowers in olden times. I am happier than ever."
But the paper did not go on its travels; it was sent to the
printer, and all the words written upon it were set up in type, to
make a book, or rather, many hundreds of books; for so many more
persons could derive pleasure and profit from a printed book, than
from the written paper; and if the paper had been sent around the
world, it would have been worn out before it had got half through
its journey.
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