Down by the river there is, as yet, little sign of spring. Its bed is all
choked with last year's reeds, trampled about like a manger. Yet its
running seems to have caught a happier note, and here and there along its
banks flash silvery wands of palm. Right down among the shabby burnt-out
underwood moves the sordid figure of a man. He seems the very _genius
loci_. His clothes are torn and soiled, as though he had slept on the
ground. The white lining of one arm gleams out like the slashing in a
doublet. His hat is battered, and he wears no collar. I don't like staring
at his face, for he has been unfortunate. Yet a glimpse tells me that he
is far down the hill of life, old and drink-corroded at fifty. He is
miserably gathering sticks--perhaps a little job for the farm close by. He
probably slept in the barn there last night, turned out drunk from the
public-house. He will probably do and be done by likewise to-night. How
many faggots to the dram? one wonders. What is he thinking as he rustles
about disconsolately among the bushes? Of what is he _dreaming_? What does
he make of the lark up there? But I notice he never looks at it. Perhaps
he cannot bear to. For who knows what is in the heart beneath that poor
soiled coat? If you have hopes, he may have memories. Some day your hopes
will be memories too--birds that have flown away, flowers long since
withered.