“You wouldn’t believe the job I had to find even this little lot,” he would say. “Sometimes I thought I’d leave me leg be’ind, I was that weak I couldn’ seem to drag it through the mud at all. An’ my wife, she’s got the gouty rheumatiz. You’ll think that I’m all trouble!” And, summoning God-knows-what spirit of hilarity, he smiled. Then, looking at the leg he had nearly left behind, he added somewhat boastfully: “You see, it’s got no strength in it at all--there’s not a bit o’ muscle left.... Very few people,” his eyes and voice seemed proudly saying, “have got a leg like this!” To the dispassionate observer of his existence it was a little difficult to understand what attraction life could have for him; a little difficult to penetrate down through the blackness of his continual toil and pains, to the still living eyes of that bird of weariness, lying within his soul, moving always, if but slightly, its wounded stumps of wings. It seemed, on the whole, unreasonable of this man to cling to life, since he was without prospect of anything but what was worse in this life; and, in the matter of a life to come, would dubiously remark: “My wife’s always a-tellin’ me we can’t be no worse off where we’re a-goin’. An’ she’s right, no doubt, if so be as we’re goin’ anywhere!” And yet, so far as could be seen, the thought: “Why do I continue living?” never came to him. It almost seemed as if it must be giving him a secret joy to measure himself against his troubles. And this was fortunate, for in a day’s march one could not come across a better omen for the future of mankind. In the crowded highway, beside his basket, he stood, leaning on his twisted stick, with his tired, steadfast face--a ragged statue to the great, unconscious human virtue, the most hopeful and inspiring of all things on earth: Courage without Hope! END.