The Vicar going to call the Angel, found him dressed and leaning out of his window. It was a glorious morning, still dewy, and the rising sunlight slanting¹ round the corner of the house, struck warm and yellow upon the hillside. The birds were astir in the hedges and shrubbery. Up the hillside—for it was late in August—a plough drove slowly. The Angel's chin rested upon his hands and he did not turn as the Vicar came up to him.

 

"How's the wing?" said the Vicar.

 

"I'd forgotten it," said the Angel. "Is that yonder a man?"

 

The Vicar looked. "That's a ploughman."

 

"Why does he go to and fro like that? Does it amuse him?"

 

"He's ploughing. That's his work."

 

[Pg 98]

 

"Work! Why does he do it? It seems a monotonous² thing to do."

 

"It is," admitted the Vicar. "But he has to do it to get a living, you know. To get food to eat and all that kind of thing."

 

"How curious!" said the Angel. "Do all men have to do that? Do you?"

 

"Oh, no. He does it for me; does my share."

 

"Why?" asked the Angel.

 

"Oh! in return for things I do for him, you know. We go in for division of labour in this world. Exchange is no robbery."

 

"I see," said the Angel, with his eyes still on the ploughman's heavy movements.

 

"What do you do for him?"

 

"That seems an easy question to you," said the Vicar, "but really!—it's difficult. Our social arrangements are rather complicated. It's impossible to explain these things all at once, before breakfast. Don't you feel hungry?"

 

"I think I do," said the Angel slowly, still at the window; and then abruptly³, "Somehow I can't help thinking that ploughing must be far from enjoyable."

 

[Pg 99]

 

"Possibly," said the Vicar, "very possibly. But breakfast is ready. Won't you come down?"

 

The Angel left the window reluctantly.

分享到：