294 NATURAL HISTORY READER. 



2. The frost was silvering the trees of the Park Monceau 

 with dull, white powder, like the head of a marquis of the 

 old regime. It was in front of the rotunda, and nine 

 o'clock in the morning. The sun hung in the fog like a 

 globe of fire, but cast forth no beams. The wind was cruel 

 to the poor world. People walked rapidly along the Boule- 

 vard de Courcelles ; women veiled their faces, and men 

 drew their heads inside their collars. It was a day when a 

 lover's sigh would have frozen in the air. 



3. I was hurrying by like everybody else. A female 

 rag-picker, pale and famished, led by the bridle a poor little 

 donkey, which seemed a hundred years old, and which 

 dragged a poor little cart, full of the rubbish of the street : 

 rags, broken bottles, torn papers, worn-out skillets, crusts 

 of bread — the thousand nothings which are the fortune of 

 the rag-pickers. The woman had done good work since 

 midnight, but the donkey was ready to drop. He stopped 

 short, as if ho had made up his mind to go no farther. 

 His legs trembled and threatened a fall. He hung his head 

 with resignation, as if awaiting the stroke of death. 



4. The sight touched and arrested me. A man would 

 have cursed and beaten the poor beast to rouse him ; the 

 woman looked at him with an eye of motherly pity. The 

 donkey returned the look, as if saying, " You see it is all 

 over. I have done my best for you, night after night, be- 

 cause I saw your misery was greater than mine. You have 

 treated me well, sharing your bread with me, and your 

 neighbors' oats when you could get them ; but I am dying 

 at last." 



5. The woman looked at him and said, gently, "Come, 

 come, dear Pierrot, do not leave me here." She lightened 

 the load by taking out a basket of broken bottles. " Come, 

 now," she said, as if talking to a child. "You can get 

 along nicely now." She put her shoulder to the wheel, 

 but the donkey did not move. He knew that he had not 



