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Poem	(He speaks.) Walking, walking, oh, the joy of walking! Swinging down the tawny lanes with head held high; Striding up the green hills, through the heather stalking, Swishing through the woodlands where the brown leaves lie; Marveling at all things -- windmills gaily turning, Apples for the cider-press, ruby-hued and gold; Tails of rabbits twinkling, scarlet berries burning, Wedge of geese high-flying in the sky's clear cold, Light in little windows, field and furrow darkling; Home again returning, hungry as a hawk; Whistling up the garden, ruddy-cheeked and sparkling, Oh, but I am happy as I walk, walk, walk! (She speaks.) Walking, walking, oh, the curse of walking! Slouching round the grim square, shuffling up the street, Slinking down the by-way, all my graces hawking, Offering my body to each man I meet. Peering in the gin-shop where the lads are drinking, Trying to look gay-like, crazy with the blues; Halting in a doorway, shuddering and shrinking (Oh, my draggled feather and my thin, wet shoes). Here's a drunken drover: "Hullo, there, old dearie!" No, he only curses, can't be got to talk. . . . On and on till daylight, famished, wet and weary, God in Heaven help me as I walk, walk, walk!
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