row of dying trees.

But up on the mountain it is not all gloom and the agony of death.
As one walks between the brown trees, in such distress that one is
ready to die, one catches glimpses of green trees. The perfume of
flowers fills the air; the song of birds exults and calls. Then
thoughts rise of the sleeping forest and of the paradise of the
fairy-tale, encircled by thorny thickets. And when one comes at
last to the green, to the flower fragrance, to the song of the
birds, one sees that it is the hidden graveyard of the little town.

The home of the dead lies in an earth-filled hollow in the mountain
plateau. And there, within the grey stone walls, the knowledge and
weariness of life end. Lilacs stand at the entrance, bending under
heavy clusters. Lindens and beeches spread a lofty arch of
luxuriant growth over the whole place. Jasmines and roses blossom
freely in that consecrated earth. Over the big old tombstones creep
vines of ivy and periwinkle.

There is a corner where the pine-trees grow mast-high. Does it not
seem as if the young wood outside ought to be ashamed at the sight
of them? And there are hedges there, quite grown beyond their
keeper's hands, blooming and sending forth shoots without thought
of shears or knife.

The town now has a new burial-place, to which the dead can come
without special trouble. It was a weary way for them to be carried
up in winter, when the steep wood-paths are covered with ice, and
the steps slippery and covered with snow. The coffin creaked; the
bearers panted; the old clergyman leaned heavily on the sexton and