It might have been something overlooked.
* * * * *
The rain ends. The old book store slowly empties. A troop of men and women
saunter out, pausing to say farewell to the gaudily ragged tomes in the
old book store. The sky has grown lighter. The buildings shake the last
drops of rain from their spatula tops. There is a different-looking,
well-linened gentleman thrusts his head into the old book store and
inquires, "Have you a copy of 'The Investors' Guide'?"
ILL-HUMORESQUE
The beggar in the street, sitting on the pavement against the building
with his pleading face raised and his arm outstretched--I don't like him.
I don't like the way he tucks his one good leg under him in order to
convey the impression that he is entirely legless. I don't like the way he
thrusts his arm stump at me, the way his eyes plead his weakness and
sorrow.
He is a presumptuous and calculating scoundrel, this beggar. He is a
diabolical psychologist. Why will people drop coins into his hat? Ah,
because when they look at him and his misfortunes, by a common mental ruse
they see themselves in his place, and they hurriedly fling a coin to this
fugitive image of themselves. And because in back of this beggar has grown
up an insidious propaganda that power is wrong, that strength is evil,
that riches are vile.
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