wintry evening; the trees were stripped of their foliage; the
churchyard looked naked and mournful, and the wind rustled
coldly through the grass. Evergreens, however, had been
planted about the grave of the village favorite, and osiers
were bent over it to keep the turf uninjured. The church
door was open, and I stepped in. -- There hung the chaplet of
flowers and the gloves, as on the day of the funeral: the
flowers were withered, it is true, but care seemed to have been
taken that no dust should soil their whiteness. I have seen
many monuments, where art has exhausted its powers to awaken
the sympathy of the spectator; but I have met with none
that spoke more touchingly to my heart, than this simple, but
delicate memento of departed innocence.

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