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The Churchyard
It was a beautiful evening in August. The
Löfven lay smooth as glass; a haze veiled the hills,
and there was a refreshing coolness in the air.
Colonel Beerencreutz of the bristling white
moustaches, short of stature and strong as an
athlete, came down to the shore of the lake, his
camphio-deck in his pocket, and stepped into a flat-bottomed
boat. With him were Major Anders Fuchs, his old
brother-at-arms, and little Ruster, who had been
drummer-boy with the Värmland Chasseurs and
for many years the Colonel’s devoted friend and
orderly.
On the other shore of the lake lies the churchyard,
the neglected churchyard of Svartsjö parish,
set here and there with slanting iron crosses that
rattle with every wind, and tufted as an unploughed
field with sedge and striped grasses, which seem to
have sprung up there to remind us that no two
men’s lives are the same, but vary as do the blades
of grass. Here there are no gravelled walks, no
shading trees save the great linden on the grave of some
old forgotten curate, but a stone wall, thick and
high, encloses the field.
A wretched, lonely place is this churchyard, ugly
as the pinched face of a miser withered by the curses
of those he has robbed of happiness. And yet those
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