I wandered through a street. Far above my head, from a high story, my
grandmother's prophetic couplet floated down to me amid the shock of
glasses, the rattle of dishes, and the merry laughter of girls.
"Christmas comes,
Christmas goes;
But soon we all shall be of those
Who come back--never!"
"Here," thought I, "is a home, a hearth, with almond soup and a
gilt-head, which I could buy for four dollars!" Just then a woman
came up to me, begging. She had two children, one in her arms wrapped
in her ravelled shawl, the other clinging to her hand. Both were
crying; I thought the mother was crying too.