makes old people think with sadness that the grasshopper is a burden in the land, and that the almond-tree is about to flourish; but the young it fills with a vinous and intoxicated rejoicing, as if the time of feasting, fruits, harvests, and young wine, strong and fruity, was upon the world.  It made Mr. James—­his surname has never been ascertained, but man and boy, Mr. James has been at Emblem’s for twenty-five years and more—­leave his table where he was preparing the forthcoming catalogue, and go to the open door, where he wasted a good minute and a half in gazing up at the clear sky and down the sunny street.  Then he stretched his arms and returned to his work, impelled by the sense of duty rather than by the scourge of necessity, because there was no hurry about the catalogue and most of the books in it were rubbish, and at that season of the year few customers could be expected, and there were no parcels to tie up and send out.  He went back to his work, therefore, but he left the door partly open in order to enjoy the sight of the warm sunshine.  Now for Emblem’s to have its door open, was much as if Mr. Emblem himself should so far forget his self-respect as to sit in his shirt-sleeves.  The shop had been rather dark, the window being full of books, but now through the open door there poured a little stream of sunshine, reflected from some far off window.  It fell upon a row of old eighteenth century volumes, bound in dark and rusty leather, and did so light up and glorify the dingy bindings and faded gold, that they seemed fresh from the binder’s hands, and just ready for the noble purchaser, long since dead and gone, whose book plate they bore.  Some of this golden stream fell also upon the head of the assistant—­it was a red head, with fiery red eyes, red eyebrows, bristly and thick, and sharp thin features to match—­and it gave him the look of one who is dragged unwillingly into the sunlight.  However, Mr. James took no notice of the sunshine, and went on with his cataloguing almost as if he liked that kind of work.  There are many people who seem to like dull work, and they would not be a bit more unhappy if they were made to take the place of Sisyphus, or transformed into the damsels who are condemned to toil continually at the weary work of pouring water into a sieve.  Perhaps Sisyphus does not so much mind the continual going up and down hill.  “After all,” he might say, “this is better than the lot of poor Ixion.  At all events, I have got my limbs free.”  Ixion, on the other hand, no doubt, is full of pity for his poor friend Sisyphus.  “I, at least,” he says, “have no work to do.  And the rapid motion of the wheel is in sultry weather sometimes pleasant.”