It Had Been a Mild, Delicate Night #245366

IT had been A MILD, delicate night. Traces of it still clung to Jaques as he shuddered with slowly growing consciousness. The insistent nudging of the park bench, the whimpering of the river tugs, the fidgeting of the dead leaves in the morning breeze, at last forced him to Open his eyes. Without changing his position, he took in his surroundings, the urchin sparrows, flapping their wings in the dust, the balls of silver paper flicked by coy 'clerks at passing typists, the overlooked ice cream cartons, even the variegated gravel. Above the ground his inspec tion was more cursory. He ignored the violent red geraniums, the self-conscious green lawns, the trim trees and other impedimenta of public relaxation. The gleam of a freshly painted litter basket held his curious gaze for a moment, and he reserved its contents for future investigation. His bedfellows, seduced into some kind of regulation by the symmetry of the benches, he disdained to notice. He wore his rank easily and without effort. And they, the beggars, the street — singers, the pavement-artists, the bourgeoisie of the gutter, deferred to his unquestioned prerogative. We, the cripples, mock at the helpless; had they legs, the helpless would dance the Carmagnole on the swollen dead.