_Under An Umbrella_


From under the roof of my umbrella I saw the washed pavement
lapsing beneath my feet, the news-posters lying smeared with
dirt at the crossings, the tracks of the busses in the liquid
mud. On I went through this dreary world of wetness. And
through how many rains and years shall I still hurry down
wet streets--middle-aged, and then, perhaps, very old? And
on what errands?

Asking myself this cheerless question I fade from your vision,
Reader, into the distance, sloping my umbrella against the wind.



THE END