r. "One must have more than
the eye of a shoemaker to know one pair from the other," said he,
soliloquizing; and putting, at the same time, the galoshes in search of
an owner, beside his own in the corner.

"Here, sir!" said one of the men, who panting brought him a tremendous
pile of papers.

The copying-clerk turned round and spoke awhile with the man about the
reports and legal documents in question; but when he had finished, and
his eye fell again on the Shoes, he was unable to say whether those to
the left or those to the right belonged to him. "At all events it must
be those which are wet," thought he; but this time, in spite of his
cleverness, he guessed quite wrong, for it was just those of Fortune
which played as it were into his hands, or rather on his feet. And why,
I should like to know, are the police never to be wrong? So he put them
on quickly, stuck his papers in his pocket, and took besides a few under
his arm, intending to look them through at home to make the necessary
notes. It was noon; and the weather, that had threatened rain, began
to clear up, while gaily dressed holiday folks filled the streets. "A
little trip to Fredericksburg would do me no great harm," thought he;
"for I, poor beast of burden that I am, have so much to annoy me, that I
don't know what a good appetite is. 'Tis a bitter crust, alas! at which
I am condemned to gnaw!"

Nobody could be more steady or quiet than this young man; we therefore
wish him joy of the excursion with all our heart; and it will certainly
be beneficial for a person who leads so sedentary a life. In the park
he met a friend, one of our young poets, who told him that the following
day he should set out on his long-intended tour.

"So you are going away again!" said the clerk. "You are a very free
and happy being; we others are chained by the leg and held fast to our
desk."

"Yes; but it is a chain, friend, which ensures you the blessed bread
of existence," answered the poet. "You need feel no care for the coming
morrow: when you are old, you receive a pension."

"True," said the clerk, shrugging his shoulders; "and yet you are
the better off. To sit at one's ease and poetise--that is a pleasure;
everybody has something agreeable to say to you, and you are always your
own master. No, friend, you should but try what it is to sit from one
year's end to the other occupied with and judging the most trivial
matters."

The poet shook his head, the copying-cl