thicker town, I was the only man in the breakfast room. Two widows, each
with a tiny dog on a chair beside her, sat at the next table. This was
their conversation:

"Did you hear her last night?"

"Was it Flossie that I heard?"

"Yes. The poor dear was awake all night. She got her feet wet yesterday
when I let her run upon the grass."

But after breakfast--if the day is sunny and the wind sits in a favoring
quarter--one by one the widows go forth in their chairs. These are wicker
contrivances that hang between three wheels. Burros pull them, and men walk
alongside to hold their bridles. Down comes the widow. Down comes a maid
with her wraps. Down comes a maid with Flossie. The wraps are adjusted. The
widow is handed in. Her feet are wound around with comforters against a
draft. Her salts rest in her lap. Her ample bag of knitting is safe aboard.
Flossie is placed beside her. Proot! The donkey starts.

All morning the widow sits in the Pantilles and listens to the band and
knits. Flossie sits on the flagging at her feet with an intent eye upon the
ball of worsted. Twice in a morning--three times if the gods are kind--the
ball rolls to the pavement. Flossie has been waiting so long for this
to happen. It is the bright moment of her life--the point and peak of
happiness. She darts upon it. She paws it exultantly for a moment. Brief is
the rainbow and brief the Borealis. The finger of Time is swift.

The poppy blooms and fades. The maid captures the ball of worsted and
restores it.