for light laughter, for all life is chilled
With the unpurposed toil of many years.
But once--ah, once!--the accordion's wheezy strains
Led my poor heart to April-smelling lanes._

A SUNDAY NIGHT

ANYWHERE

There is something almost freakish in the thoughtful calm of the London
Sunday. During the night the town seems to have cleaned and preened
itself, and the creamy, shadow-fretted streets of the Sabbath belong
more to some Southern region than to Battersea or Barnsbury. The very
houses have a detached, folded manner, like volumes of abstruse
theological tracts. From every church tower sparks of sound leap out on
the expectant air, mingling and clashing with a thousand others; and the
purple spires fling themselves to heaven with the joy of a perfect
thought. In the streets there is an atmosphere of best clothes and best
manners. There is a flutter of bright frocks. Father, in his black coat
and silk hat, walks seriously, as befits one with responsibilities, what
time mother at home is preparing the feast. The children, poor darlings,
do not skip or jump or laugh. They walk sedately, in their starchy
attire, holding father's arm and trying to realize that it really is
Sunday, and therefore very sinful to fling oneself about. The people
taking their appetite stroll before midday dinner look all so sleek and
complacent that one would like to borrow money from them. The 'buses
rumble with a cheeriness that belongs not to weekdays; their handrails
gleam with a new brightness, and the High Street, with shops shuttered
and barred, bears not the faintest resemblance to the High Street you
know so well, even as policemen, with helmets and tunics, look
surprisingly unlike human beings. The water-carts seem to work with
cleaner, lighter water, and as the sun catches the sprayed stream it
whips it into a thousand drops of white fire. It is Sunday. The roads
are blazing with white ribbons under the noon sun. A stillness broods
over all, a stillness only accentuated by the brazen voice of the
Salvation Army band and the miserable music of winkles rattling on
dinner-plates. The colours of the little girls' dresses slash the grey
backgrounds of the pavement with rich streaks. Spears of sunshine,
darting through the sparse plane-trees, play all about them, and ring
them with radiance; and they look so fresh and happy that you want to
kiss them. It is Sunday.

Yes, it is Sunday, and you will realize that a