love he bore to his house; and lastly, spoke of the consuming languor
which would sweep him away with the autumnal leaves, and lay him in the
churchyard beside those he had loved so well. His intense imaginative
faculty might be seen strong even in death, and in idea he loved to
endow with a fanciful sympathy the turf and flowers which would blossom
on his grave.

"Do you know what grieves me most?" said he, pointing to the fringe of
little birds which were perched round the top of his bed. "It is to
think that next spring these poor little ones, my latest friends, will
seek for me in vain in the tower. They will no longer find the broken
pane through which to fly in; and on the floor, the little flocks of
wool from my mattress with which to build their nests. But the old
nurse, to whom I bequeath my little all, will take care of them as long
as she lives," he resumed, as if to comfort himself with the idea; "and
after her--Well! God will; for He feedeth the young ravens."

He seemed moved while speaking of these little creatures. It was easy
to see that he had long been weaned from the sympathy of men, and that
the whole tenderness of his soul, which had been repulsed by them, was
now transferred to dumb animals. "Will you spend any time among our
mountains?" he inquired. "Yes," I replied. "So much the better," he
added; "you will close my eyes, and take care that my grave is dug as
close as possible to those of my mother, wife, and child."

He then begged me to draw towards him a large chest of carved wood,
which was concealed beneath a bag of Indian corn at one end of the
room. I placed the chest upon the bed, and from it he drew a quantity
of papers which he tore silently to pieces for half an hour, and then
bid his old nurse sweep them into the fire. There were verses in many