Strictly speaking, I am not so fair as she: but then, she is less graceful than I. esides, my eyes have a golden tint, such as no other girls have, so far as I know.
I often walk a few versts with Martha, as far as the "Kirkut," or Jewish cemetery.
There they stand, the hewn gravestones, in long parallel upright rows. Upon them you may see cabalistic signs and symbols; a lion, a broken taper, or a shelf of books; and certain embellishments that might almost be styled "decadent." The graves, overgrown with moss, heather, and wild thyme, are nearly level with the rest of the ground. The wooden inclosure, over which we always have to climb, is lost in the woods among the pinetrunks; and those long regular rows of stones raise their heads in a forest elsewhere untouched by man. Here, I feel as though I had gone far back into the dim immemorial Past.
I love that burial-ground; I love to contemplate Life trampling upon Death; and as I gaze, I cease to fear Death any more. Death makes away with the individual only, with the accidental manifestation? of Life: Life
