A shabbily dressed old man, with coarse hands stood at the street
crossing. He pressed close to the wall to let the woman and the boy
pass. The old man looked at the boy with dull eyes and smiled stupidly.
Confused, sluggish thoughts struggled within his almost bald head.
“A little gentleman!” said he to himself. “Quite a small fellow. And
simply bursting with joy. Just look at him cutting his paces!”
He could not quite understand it. Somehow it seemed strange to him.
Here was a child—a thing to be pulled about by the hair! Play is
mischief. Children, as every one knows, are mischief-makers.
And there was the mother—she uttered no reproach, she made no fuss, she
did not scold. She was smart and bright. It was quite easy to see that
they were used to warmth and comfort.
On the other hand, when he, the old man, was a boy he lived a dog’s
life! There was nothing particularly rosy in his life even now; though,
to be sure, he was no longer thrashed and he had plenty to eat. He
recalled his younger days—their hunger, their cold, their drubbings. He
had never had fun with a hoop, or other playthings of well-to-do folks.
Thus passed all his life—in poverty, in care, in misery. And he could
recall nothing—not a single joy.
He smiled with his toothless mouth at the boy, and he envied him. He
reflected:
“What a silly sport!”
But envy tormented him.
He went to work—to the factory where he had worked from childhood,
where he had grown old. And all day he thought of the boy.
It was a fixed, deep-rooted thought. He simply could not get the boy
out of his mind. He saw him running, laughing, stamping his feet,
bowling the hoop. What plump little legs he had, bared at the knee!...
All day long, amid the din of the factory wheels, the boy with the hoop
appeared to him. And at night he saw the boy in a dream.