he thought wrong, for these were the goloshes of Fortune; but why should not the police be sometimes mistaken? He put them on, thrust some papers into his pocket, and put a few manuscripts under his arm, for they were to be read at home, and abstracts to be made from them. But now it was Sunday morning, and the weather was fine. 'A walk to Fredericksberg would do me good,' said he; and he went out accordingly.
There could not be a quieter, steadier person than this young man. We grant him his little walk with all our hearts; it will certainly do him good after so much sitting. At first he only walked without thinking of anything, so the goloshes had no opportunity of displaying their magic power.
In the avenue he met an acquaintance, a young poet, who told him that he was going to start, next day, on a summer trip.
'Are you going away again already?' asked the copying clerk. 'What a happy, free man you are! You can fly wherever you like; we others have a chain to our foot.'
'But it is fastened to the bread tree!' replied the poet. 'You need not be anxious for the morrow; and when you grow old you get a pension.'
'But you are better off, after all,' said the copying clerk. 'It must be a pleasure to sit and write poetry. Everybody says agreeable things to you, and then you are your own master. Ah, you should just try it, poring over the frivolous affairs in the court.'
The poet shook his head; the copying clerk shook his head also: each retained his own opinions; and thus they parted.
'They are a strange race, these poets!' thought the copying clerk. 'I should like to try and enter into such a nature—to become a poet myself. I am certain I should not write such complaining verses as the rest. What a splendid spring day for a poet! The air is so remarkably clear, the clouds are so beautiful, and the green smells so sweet. For many years I have not felt as I feel at this moment.'
We already notice that he has become a poet. It was
