Working People

O that warm February morning! The untimely south came to stir up our absurd paupers' memories, our young distress. Henrika had on a brown and white checked cotton skirt which must have been worn in the last century, a bonnet with ribbons and a silk scarf. It was much sadder than any mourning. We were taking a stroll in the suburbs. The weather was overcast and that wind from the south excited all the evil odors of the desolate garden and the dried fields. It did not seem to weary my wife as it did me. In a puddle left by the rains of the preceding month, on a fairly high path, she called my attention to some very little fishes. The city with its smoke and its factory noises followed us far out along the roads. O other world, habituation blessed by sky and shade! The south brought black miserable memories of my childhood, my summer despairs, the horrible quantity of strength and of knowledge that fate has always kept from me. No! we will not spend the summer in this avaricious country where we shall never be anything but affianced orphans. I want this hardened arm to stop dragging _a cherished image._