Departing steamers blow white clouds
of steam from their exhausts; the docks are busy, the harbour is alive.
And letter-carriers and telegraph messengers have already commenced their
rounds, bringing news, scattering information through the doors, whirling
up in the hearts of men emotions and feelings like leaves in an autumn
wind.
A stray dog with his nose on the pavement lopes through the streets, hot
on a scent and without a thought for anything else. Suddenly he stops,
jumps up and whines; he has found a little girl who is leaving on every
stoop newspapers full of 17th-of-May freedom and bold, ringing phrases.
The little girl jerks her tiny body in all directions, twitches her
shoulders, blinks and hurries from door to door. She is pale and
emaciated; she has Saint Vitus's dance.
The coal-heaver continues his walk with a heavy, long stride. He has
earned a good night's wage; these enormous English coal-steamers and the
many merchantmen from all over the world are indeed a blessing to such as
he! His shovel is shiny with wear; he shifts it to his other shoulder and
it glitters with every step he takes, signals to heaven with gleaming
flashes; it cuts the air like a weapon and shines like silver.
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