Over the street the white clouds meet, and sheer away without touching.
On the sidewalks, boys are playing marbles. Glass marbles, with amber
and blue hearts, roll together and part with a sweet clashing noise.
The boys strike them with black and red striped agates. The glass
marbles spit crimson when they are hit, and slip into the gutters under
rushing brown water. I smell tulips and narcissus in the air, but there
are no flowers anywhere, only white dust whipping up the street, and a
girl with a gay Spring hat and blowing skirts. The dust and the wind
flirt at her ankles and her neat, high-heeled patent leather shoes.
Tap, tap, the little heels pat the pavement, and the wind rustles among
the flowers on her hat.
A water-cart crawls slowly on the other side of the way. It is green
and gay with new paint, and rumbles contentedly, sprinkling clear water
over the white dust. Clear zigzagging water, which smells of tulips and
narcissus.
The thickening branches make a pink 'grisaille' against the blue sky.
Whoop! The clouds go dashing at each other and sheer away just in time.
Whoop! And a man's hat careers down the street in front of the white
dust, leaps into the branches of a tree, veers away and trundles ahead
of the wind, jarring the sunlight into spokes of rose-colour and green.
A motor-car cuts a swathe through the bright air, sharp-beaked,
irresistible, shouting to the wind to make way. A glare of dust and
sunshine tosses together behind it, and settles down. The sky is quiet
and high, and the morning is fair with fresh-washed air.