the love of a village shepherd for a birch of the field which after his death "took up and withered," according to the words of those pathetic verses.
There were better and worse things in that assembly; humor appeared often, but at times something superior which was worth listening to, especially since by degrees through exercise and criticism capacities of greater or less power were manifested.
But Augustinovich towered above every one at all times. It happened more than once, God forgive, that he came drunk to the meeting, his manuscript crushed, soiled, and written fragmentarily on anything; but when he began to read all else was forgotten, the soul clung to his words. More than one student used hands and head, drew out of himself all that was best, wrote a thing that was more or less good, but common. "That lurking soul" caught up a pen right there in the room amid noise and conversation, but sheets and sheets flew from his hand and dropped under the table. When he had finished writing he picked up the sheets, arranged them, and sat down with indifference; but all listened, and more than one man envied him secretly. His figures were as if living, so complete were they; under
