parakeets—poor little creatures! Is there no one here who thinks of God?—just up there, over the pier, with his rod—but no—there’s nothing but grey in the sky or if it’s blue the white clouds hide him, and the music—it’s military music—and what they are fishing for? Do they catch them? How the children stare! Well, then home a back way—“Home a back way!” The words have meaning; might have been spoken by the old man with whiskers—no, no, he didn’t really speak; but everything has meaning—placards leaning against doorways—names above shop-windows—red fruit in baskets—women’s heads in the hairdresser’s—all say “Minnie Marsh!” But here’s a jerk. “Eggs are cheaper!” That’s what always happens! I was heading her over the waterfall, straight for madness, when, like a flock of dream sheep, she turns t’other way and runs between my fingers. Eggs are cheaper. Tethered to the shores of the world, none of the crimes, sorrows, rhapsodies, or insanities for poor Min-
