To be sure, he is the most insignificant straw
that the wind of destiny blows across the waste of life. He never
will mature a head of wheat though you give him eleven eternities to do
it in. But he serves his purpose, and breaks the back of toleration.
XXXI.
A SALLOW FACED GIRL FOR YOUR PITY.
On the opposite corner sits a half-grown girl peddling apples. She
polishes the fruit occasionally with a rag that she carries about her
person (let us humbly hope it is not her handkerchief!) and now and
then breaks into a double shuffle to dissipate the chill that invades
her ill-clothed frame. What taste of joy do you suppose that child
ever got out of the pewter cup the fates pour for her? Does she ever
find time to run about with other children, playing the games which the
generations hand down from one to the other? Does she ever play "tag,"
or "gray wolf," or "I spy?" Does she ever swing in a hammock like
other girls when the days are long and blithe and sweet, as free from
care as a cloud or a butterfly? Does life hold for her one sparkle in
its poor cup of wine, one flavor that is not sordid and low and mean?
You say it is easy to sit here all day selling apples, and wonder why I
hold this sallow-faced girl up for special pity. To be sure there is
no hardship in the part of her life visible to us. But in her dull
soul lurks constantly the shadow of an ever present fear.
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