“Why, there is a pair of galoshes, as sure as I'm alive!” said the
watchman, awaking from a gentle slumber. “They belong no doubt to the
lieutenant who lives over the way. They lie close to the door.”
The worthy man was inclined to ring and deliver them at the house, for
there was still a light in the window; but he did not like disturbing
the other people in their beds, and so very considerately he left the
matter alone.
“Such a pair of shoes must be very warm and comfortable,” said he; “the
leather is so soft and supple.” They fitted his feet as though they
had been made for him. “'Tis a curious world we live in,” continued he,
soliloquizing. “There is the lieutenant, now, who might go quietly to
bed if he chose, where no doubt he could stretch himself at his ease;
but does he do it? No; he saunters up and down his room, because,
probably, he has enjoyed too many of the good things of this world at
his dinner. That's a happy fellow! He has neither an infirm mother, nor
a whole troop of everlastingly hungry children to torment him. Every
evening he goes to a party, where his nice supper costs him nothing:
would to Heaven I could but change with him! How happy should I be!”
While expressing his wish, the charm of the shoes, which he had put on,
began to work; the watchman entered into the being and nature of the
lieutenant. He stood in the handsomely furnished apartment, and held
between his fingers a small sheet of rose-colored paper, on which some
verses were written--written indeed by the officer himself; for who has
not, at least once in his life, had a lyrical moment? And if one then
marks down one's thoughts, poetry is produced. But here was written: