Page "belles_lettres" Paragraph 258

The street that is full now of traffic and parked cars then and for many years drowsed on an August afternoon in the shade of the curbside trees, and silence was a weight, almost palpable, in the air.

Every slight sound that rose against that pressure fell away again, crushed beneath it.

A hay-wagon moved slowly along the gutter, the top of it swept by the low boughs of the maple trees, and loose straws were left hanging tangled among the leaves.

A wheel squeaked on a hub, was still, and squeaked again.

If a child watched its progress he whispered, `` Hay, hay, load of hay -- make a wish and turn away '', and then stared rigidly in the opposite direction until the sound of the horses' feet returned no more.

When the hay wagon had gone, and an interval passed, a huckster's cart might turn the corner.

The horse walked, the reins were slack, the huckster rode with bowed shoulders, his forearms across his knees.

Sleepily, as if half-reluctant to break the silence, he lifted his voice: `` Rhu-beb-ni-ice nice fresh rhu-beb today ''!!

The lazy sing-song was spaced in time like the drone of a bumble-bee.

No one seemed to hear him, no one heeded.

The horse plodded on, and he repeated his call.

It became so monotonous as to seem a part of the quietness.

After his passage, the street was empty again.

The sun moved slant-wise across the sky and down ; ;

the trees' shadows circled from street to sidewalk, from sidewalk to lawn.

At four-o'clock, or four-thirty, the coming of the newsboy marked the end of the day ; ;

he tossed a paper toward every front door, and housewives came down to their steps to pick them up and read what their neighbors had been doing.