When it did shut it did so unexpectedly and knocked one's hat off.

I don't know why it should be so, but it is an undeniable fact that
there is nothing makes a man look so supremely ridiculous as losing
his hat. The feeling of helpless misery that shoots down one's back
on suddenly becoming aware that one's head is bare is among the most
bitter ills that flesh is heir to. And then there is the wild chase
after it, accompanied by an excitable small dog, who thinks it is a
game, and in the course of which you are certain to upset three or
four innocent children--to say nothing of their mothers--butt a fat
old gentleman on to the top of a perambulator, and carom off a ladies'
seminary into the arms of a wet sweep.

After this, the idiotic hilarity of the spectators and the
disreputable appearance of the hat when recovered appear but of minor
importance.

Altogether, what between March winds, April showers, and the entire
absence of May flowers, spring is not a success in cities. It is all
very well in the country, as I have said, but in towns whose
population is anything over ten thousand it most certainly ought to be
abolished. In the world's grim workshops it is like the children--out
of place. Neither shows to advantage amid the dust and din. It seems
so sad to see the little dirt-grimed brats try to play in the noisy
courts and muddy streets. Poor little uncared-for, unwanted human
atoms, they are not children. Children are bright-eyed, chubby, and
shy. These are dingy, screeching elves, their tiny faces seared and
withered, their baby laughter cracked and hoarse.