To reconcile this apathy of his with recollections of his unresting, mirthless energy down alleys and on doorsteps, it was needful to remember human nature, and its exhaustless cruse [Footnote: Exhaustless cruse. See I Kings XVII: 8-16.] of courage. For, though he might not care to live, yet, while he was alive he would keep his end up, because he must--there was no other way. And why exhaust himself in vain regrets and dreams of things he could not see, and hopes of being what he could not be! That he had no resentment against anything was certain from his patient eyes--not even against those two who sat, one on either side of him--unaware that he was what he was, in order that they who against his will had brought him into being, might be forced by law to keep a self-respect they had already lost, and have the insufficiency of things he could not eat. For he had as yet no knowledge of political economy. He evidently did not view his case in any petty, or in any party, spirit; he did not seem to look on himself as just a half-starved child that should have cried its eyes out till it was fed at least as well as the dogs that passed him; he seemed to look on himself as that impersonal, imperial thing--the Future of the Race. So profound his apathy! And, as I looked, the "Future of the Race" turned to his father: "'Ark at the bird!" he said. It was a pigeon, who high upon a tree had suddenly begun to croon. One could see his head outlined against the grey unstirring sky, first bending back, then down into his breast, then back again; and that soft song of his filled all the air, like an invocation of fertility. "The Future of the Race" watched him for a minute without moving, and suddenly he laughed. That laugh was a little hard noise like the clapping of two boards--there was not a single drop of blood in it, nor the faintest sound of music; so might a marionette [Footnote: Marionette: a puppet moved by strings.] have laughed--a figure made of wood and wire. And in that laugh I seemed to hear innumerable laughter, the laughter in a million homes of the myriad unfed. So laughed the Future of the richest and the freest and the proudest race that has ever lived on earth, that February afternoon, with the little green flames lighted in the grass, under a sky that knew not wind or sun--so he laughed at the pigeon that was calling for the Spring. --JOHN GALSWORTHY. [Footnote: Why could the child enjoy only "peppermints and kippered herring"? Why does the author call the child the "Future of the Race"? Is the term used seriously or ironically? What plea does the author make for all childhood? Does the portrait of the child seem real or exaggerated? Does the author place the blame for such conditions as made this child an unhappy weakling? Compare this portrait with that of Muhammad Din.] TOO DEAR FOR THE WHISTLE