Then he points to his lips with his fingers
and makes signs. This means he is dumb. He places his hand over his
stomach and grins again. He is going to eat them. It is time to go home
and do this, so he puts up his fishpole and packs his primitive
paraphernalia--a tin can, a rusty spike, a bamboo pole.
Here is one, then, who, in the heart of the steel forest called
civilization, still seeks out long forgotten ways of keeping life in his
body. He hunts for fish.
The sun slides down the sky. The fishermen begin to pack up. They walk
with their heads down and bent forward like number 7s. They raise their
eyes occasionally to the piles of stone and steel that mark the city
front. Back to their troubles and their cinder patch, but--and this is a
curious fact--their eyes gleam with hope and curiosity.
THE SNOB
We happen to be on the same street car. A drizzle softens the windows. She
sits with her pasty face and her dull, little eyes looking out at the
dripping street. Her cotton suit curls at the lapels. The ends of her
shoes curl like a pair of burlesque Oriental slippers. She holds her hands
in her lap. Red, thick fingers that whisper tiredly, "We have worked," lie
in her lap.
A slavey on her day off.
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