anxiety is upon my soul. Against all serious rules I push myself forward in place of my puny heroes.
A recollection. . . . Reader, suddenly a picture of my distant home rises in my soul. Under my window are the noises of Vienna, the steps and the conversations of the passers-by, and the din of the tinkling tramway,—but I see a road, far, far away. It leads out of Prague. A broad swath of dust winds through a sea of green fields, cuts through a few small villages, now goes down, now again rises. Here it turns, there it goes straight, like an endless strip of cloth, and it runs and runs, until at last it appears in the horizon as a narrow, grey ribbon. . . . The telegraph posts hum their monotonous song. . . . The rattle of the wagons that pass over it in slow, measured steps resounds afar. . . .
I see a little boy hurrying over it . . . happy little man! He is hurrying home for his vacation. Behind him lies the dreary
