sons in it, four of whom were asleep; the fifth was thinking of his new summer-coat which was so becoming to him; the sixth leaned forward to the driver, and asked whether there was anything remarkable about that heap of stones: “No,” said the fellow, “it’s only a heap of stones, but the trees are remarkable!” “Tell me about them,” said the other. “Yes, they are very remarkable; you see, in winter, when the snow covers the ground, and everything, as it were, goes out in a twinkling, then those trees serve me as a landmark by which I can guide myself, and not drive into the sea; they are, therefore, you see, very remarkable,”—and by this time the carriage had passed the trees.
A painter now came up; his eyes flashed; he said not a word, he whistled, and the nightingales sang, one louder than another; “hold your tongues!” exclaimed he, and noted down with accuracy the colors and tints of the trees; “blue, black, dark-brown.” It would be a beautiful painting! He made a sketch, as hints for his intended picture, and all the time he whistled a march of Rossini’s.
The last who came by was a poor girl;
