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THE DUMB BOOK.
By the high-road in the forest lay a lonely peasant’s hut; the path to it led right through the farmyard. The sun shone, and all the windows were open, and in the house there seemed a great bustle and movement; but in the garden, in an arbour formed of blooming elder-branches, stood an open coffin. A dead man had been carried out, who on this morning was to be buried. Nobody stood by the coffin looking sorrowfully at the dead; no one shed a tear over him. His face was covered with a white cloth, and under his head lay a large, thick book, the leaves of which were entirely composed of blotting paper, and on each leaf lay a withered flower. It was
