ACHILLES GOES TO CHICAGO

Achilles Alexandrakis was arranging the fruit on his stall in front of
his little shop on Clark Street. It was a clear, breezy morning, cool
for October, but not cold enough to endanger the fruit that Achilles
handled so deftly in his dark, slender fingers. As he built the oranges
into their yellow pyramid and grouped about them figs and dates, melons
and pears, and grapes and pineapples, a look of content held his face.
This was the happiest moment of his day.

Already, half an hour ago Alcibiades and Yaxis had departed with their
pushcarts, one to the north and one to the south, calling antiphonally
as they went, in clear, high voices that came fainter and fainter to
Achilles among his fruit.

They would not return until night, and then they would come with empty
carts, and jingling in their pockets coppers and nickels and dimes. The
breath of a sigh escaped Achilles's lips as he stood back surveying the
stall. Something very like homesickness was in his heart. He had almost
fancied for a minute that he was back once more in Athens. He raised his
eyes and gave a quick, deep glance up and down the street--soot and
dirt and grime, frowning buildings and ugly lines, and overhead a meagre
strip of sky. Over Athens the sky hung glorious, a curve of light from
side to side. His soul flew wide to meet it. Once more he was swinging
along the "Street of the Winds," his face lifted to the Parthenon on
its Acropolis, his nostrils breathing the clear air. Chicago had
dropped from him like a garment, his soul rose and floated.... Athens
everywhere--column and cornice, and long, delicate lines, and colour of
marble and light. He drew a full, sweet breath.