The dumb book
By the high road in the forest lay a lonely farm the road went right through the farmyard. The sun shone down,and all the windows were open.in the house was bustle and movement;but in the yard,in an arbour of blossoming lilac, stood an open coffin.a dead man had been carried out here,and he was to be buried this morning.nobody stood by the coffin and looked sorrowfully at the dead man;no one shed a tear for him:his face was covered with a white cloth,and under his head lay a great thick book,whose leaves consisted of whole sheets of gray paper,and on each leaf lay a faded flower.it was a complete herbarium,gathered by him in various places; it was to be buried with him, for so he had wished it.with each flower a chapter in his life was associated.
Who is the dead man? We asked; and the answer was: the old student from Upasala.they say he was once a brisk lad,and studied the old languages,and sang,and even wrote poems.then something happened to him that made him turn his thoughts to brandy, and take it;and when at last he had ruined his health,he came out here into the country where somebody paid for his board and lodging.he was as gentle as a child, except when the dark mood came upon him;but when it came he became like a giant, and then ran about in the woods like a hunted stag;but when we once got him home again, and prevailed with him so far that he opened the book with the dried plants, he often sat whole days, and looked sometimes at one plant and sometimes at another, and at times the tears rolled over his cheeks:heaven knows what he was thinking of.but he begged us to put the book into the coffin, and now he lies there,and in a little while the lid will be nailed down,and he will have his quiet rest in the grave.