The sky is an ugly, drab smudge. There is no sun, no rain, no wind, nothing.

 

Across the street is a house. It is a stupid house, full of stupid people. I know them. I wish I didn’t. There are many people you are sorry to have met.

 

It’s too close to have a fire and too cold to do without one. Is anything hollower and drearier¹ than a fireless fireplace?

 

A bird is on a tree outdoors. He is not singing. His head is all drawn² down into his shoulders. He is just sitting there hating himself.

 

80

A number of people have passed by the window. They are the dullest, homeliest bunch of human creatures I ever saw. I hate them all.

 

A crash—the hired girl has just smashed one of our best plates, an extra fine Sunday plate with gold on it. The only reason I don’t go out and give her a dressing-down is because I hate to move.

 

Why move? Such a day as this you are no happier anywhere than where you are. If you must be miserable³ why spread it around?

 

Old Mrs. Grumpet has just called. She has told the missus for the nth time about her troubles. She has all the diseases she ever heard of. As soon as she hears of a new one she goes and has it. She has more symptoms than a patent-medicine almanac. And it’s all along of that blue mass she took 81 just before Austey was born. She’s a dreadful, vast, steamy creature.

 

She has left an aroma⁴ of added wretchedness in the house. We opened the window to admit some fresh air, and the flies came in. I loathe⁵ flies.

 

I chased them with a fly-swatter and broke an expensive vase. All vases must some day be shattered, as all men must die.

 

All women must die, too, and all children, also all dogs, cats, horses, cows, and grizzly⁶ bears. A hundred years from now everybody and everything will be dead. There will be a new crop. After awhile they, too, will die. What’s the use?

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