A
narrow rough ledge added to the window-sill is his bench. Behind this he
sits from six in the morning till seven at night, bent over, sewing slowly
and painfully on the coarsest shoes. His face looks old enough for sixty
years; but he cannot be so old. Yet he wears glasses and walks feebly; he
has probably never had in any one day of his life enough to eat. But I do
not know any man, and I know only one woman, who has such a look of
radiant good-cheer and content as has this poor shoemaker, Anton Grasl.
In his window are coarse wooden boxes, in which are growing the common
mallows. They are just now in full bloom,--row upon row of gay-striped
purple and white bells. The window looks to the east, and is never shut.
When I go out to my breakfast the sun is streaming in on the flowers and
Anton's face. He looks up, smiles, bows low, and says, "Good-day, good my
lady," sometimes holding the mallow-stalks back with one hand, to see me
more plainly. I feel as if the day and I had had benediction. It is always
a better day because Anton has said it is good; and I am a better woman
for sight of his godly contentment.
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