“Why, I declare the Shoes look just like my own,” said one of the clerks, eying the newly-found treasure, whose hidden powers, even he, sharp as he was, was not able to discover.  “One must have more than the eye of a shoemaker to know one pair from the other,” said he, soliloquizing; and putting, at the same time, the galoshes in search of an owner, beside his own in the corner.

“Here, sir!” said one of the men, who panting brought him a tremendous pile of papers.

The copying-clerk turned round and spoke awhile with the man about the reports and legal documents in question; but when he had finished, and his eye fell again on the Shoes, he was unable to say whether those to the left or those to the right belonged to him.  “At all events it must be those which are wet,” thought he; but this time, in spite of his cleverness, he guessed quite wrong, for it was just those of Fortune which played as it were into his hands, or rather on his feet.  And why, I should like to know, are the police never to be wrong?  So he put them on quickly, stuck his papers in his pocket, and took besides a few under his arm, intending to look them through at home to make the necessary notes.  It was noon; and the weather, that had threatened rain, began to clear up, while gaily dressed holiday folks filled the streets.  “A little trip to Fredericksburg would do me no great harm,” thought he; “for I, poor beast of burden that I am, have so much to annoy me, that I don’t know what a good appetite is.  ’Tis a bitter crust, alas! at which I am condemned to gnaw!”

Nobody could be more steady or quiet than this young man; we therefore wish him joy of the excursion with all our heart; and it will certainly be beneficial for a person who leads so sedentary a life.  In the park he met a friend, one of our young poets, who told him that the following day he should set out on his long-intended tour.

“So you are going away again!” said the clerk.  “You are a very free and happy being; we others are chained by the leg and held fast to our desk.”

“Yes; but it is a chain, friend, which ensures you the blessed bread of existence,” answered the poet.  “You need feel no care for the coming morrow:  when you are old, you receive a pension.”

“True,” said the clerk, shrugging his shoulders; “and yet you are the better off.  To sit at one’s ease and poetise—­that is a pleasure; everybody has something agreeable to say to you, and you are always your own master.  No, friend, you should but try what it is to sit from one year’s end to the other occupied with and judging the most trivial matters.”

The poet shook his head, the copying-clerk did the same.  Each one kept to his own opinion, and so they separated.

“It’s a strange race, those poets!” said the clerk, who was very fond of soliloquizing.  “I should like some day, just for a trial, to take such nature upon me, and be a poet myself; I am very sure I should make no such miserable verses as the others.  Today, methinks, is a most delicious day for a poet.  Nature seems anew to celebrate her awakening into life.  The air is so unusually clear, the clouds sail on so buoyantly, and from the green herbage a fragrance is exhaled that fills me with delight.  For many a year have I not felt as at this moment.”