Little Poems in Prose

lightings of their struggle; in those deep and many wrinkles, in those steps so slow or so dragging, he instantly deciphers innumerable legends of love deceived, of devotion misun- derstood, of effort unrewarded, of cold and hunger humbly and silently endured. Have you sometimes noticed widows upon these solitary benches? Widows who are poor; whether or no they be in mourning, it is easy to recognize them. Besides, there is always in the mourning of poor persons something lack- ing; an absence of harmony which makes it more heartbreaking. Poverty is obliged to hag- gle over its sorrow; Wealth weeps, regardless of expense. Which is the sadder and more saddening widow? She who drags, holding his hand, a brat with whom she cannot share her reverie, or she who is quite alone? I do not know. . . . Once upon a time it happened to me that I fol- lowed during long hours a mournful old woman of this type; stiff, straight, under a little word- out shawl; she bore herself in all her being with stoical pride. She was evidently condemned by absolute solitude to the habits of a celibate of long standing, and the masculine character of her manners added something mysteriously pi- quant to their austerity. I do not know in what