There is nothing to hurry him on, there is no road he must take, no place he must go to, no time when he must come home.
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I wish I were a hawker, spending my day in the road, crying, "Bangles, crystal bangles!"
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Every day I meet the hawker crying, "Bangles, crystal bangles!"
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I can see through my open window the watchman walking up and down.
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He does what he likes with his spade, he soils his clothes with dust, nobody takes him to task if he gets baked in the sun or gets wet.
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Just as it gets dark in the evening and my mother sends me to bed,
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I can see through the gate of that house the gardener digging the ground.
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I wish I were a watchman walking the streets all night, chasing the shadows with my lantern.
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The watchman swings his lantern and walks with his shadow at his side, and never once goes to bed in his life.
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I wish I were a gardener digging away at the garden with nobody to stop me from digging.
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The lane is dark and lonely, and the street-lamp stands like a giant with one red eye in its head.
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When at four in the afternoon I come back from the school,
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When the gong sounds ten in the morning and I walk to school by our lane,
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