feeling of helpless misery that shoots down one's back on suddenly becoming aware that one's head is bare is among the most bitter ills that flesh is heir to. And then there is the wild chase after it, accompanied by an excitable small dog, who thinks it is a game, and in the course of which you are certain to upset three or four innocent children—to say nothing of their mothers—butt a fat old gentleman on to the top of a perambulator, and cannon off a ladies' seminary into the arms of a wet sweep. After this, the idiotic hilarity of the spectators, and the disreputable appearance of the hat, when recovered, appear but of minor importance.
Altogether, what between March winds, April showers, and the entire absence of May flowers, spring is not a success in cities. It is all very well in the country, as I have said, but in towns, whose population is anything over ten thousand, it most certainly ought to be abolished. In the world's grim workshops, it is like the children—out of place. Neither show to advantage amidst the dust and din. It seems so sad to see the little dirt-grimed brats, trying to play in the noisy courts and muddy streets. Poor little uncared-for, unwanted human atoms, they are not children. Children are bright-eyed, chubby, and shy. These are dingy, screeching elves, their tiny faces seared and withered, their baby laughter cracked and hoarse.
