round, and the capital sausages cooked in the open air, and have
intentionally omitted many other delightful things. I cannot help
wondering now where we found time for all these summer pleasures.

True, with the exception of a few days at Whitsuntide, we had no vacation
from Easter until the first of September. But even in August one
thought, one joyous anticipation, filled every heart. The annual autumn
excursion was coming!

After we were divided into travelling parties and had ascertained which
teacher was to accompany us--a matter that seemed very important--we
diligently practised the most beautiful songs; and on many an evening
Barop or Middendorf told us of the places through which we were to pass,
their history, and the legends which were associated with them. They
were aided in this by one of the sub-teachers, Bagge, a poetically gifted
young clergyman, who possessed great personal beauty and a heart capable
of entering into the intellectual life of the boys who were entrusted to
his care.

He instructed us in the German language and literature. Possibly because
he thought that he discovered in me a talent for poetic expression, he
showed me unusual favor, even read his own verses aloud to me, and set me
special tasks in verse-writing, which he criticised with me when I had
finished. The first long poem I wrote of my own impulse was a
description of the wonderful forms assumed by the stalactite formations
in the Sophie Cave in Switzerland, which we had visited. Unfortunately,
the book containing it is lost, but I remember the following lines,
referring to the industrious sprites which I imagined as the sculptors of
the wondrous shapes: