Little Poems in Prose

XLV THE CEMETERY AND THE SHOOTING- GALLERY GRAVEYARD View Hotel! “Singular an- nouncement,” said the stroller to himself, “but well calculated to produce thirst. Sure enough, the master of this inn must appreciate Horace and the poets of the school of Epicurus; per- haps even he knows the refinement of the old Egyptians, who held no festival without a skeleton or some other emblem of the short- ness of life.” In he went, drank a glass of beer opposite the tombstones, and slowly smoked a cigar. Then the fancy took him to go into the ceme- tery whose grass was so tall and so inviting, and where so rich a sun held sway. In effect, the light and the heat were revel- ling there, and one would have said that the drunken sun was wallowing at all its length upon a carpet of magnificent flowers nourished upon destruction. An immense rustle of life filled the air; the life of things infinitely small, which was interrupted at regular intervals by