In this Paradise, our man saunters along the road only to obstruct the rush
of business.
He stands aside from the path and is warned that he tramples on sown seed.
Pushed, he starts up: hustled, he moves on.
A very busy girl comes to fetch water from the well. Her feet run on the
pavement like rapid fingers over harp-strings. Hastily she ties a negligent
knot with her hair, and loose locks on her forehead pry into the dark of
her eyes.
The man says to her, "Would you lend me your pitcher?"
"My pitcher?" she asks, "to draw water?"
"No, to paint patterns on."
"I have no time to waste," the girl retorts in contempt.
Now a busy soul has no chance against one who is supremely idle.
Every day she meets him at the well, and every day he repeats the same
request, till at last she yields.
Our man paints the pitcher with curious colours in a mysterious maze of
lines.
The girl takes it up, turns it round and asks, "What does it mean?"
"It has no meaning," he answers.
The girl carries the pitcher home.
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