WHEN the gong sounds ten in the morning and I walk to school by our lane,  
Every day I meet the hawker crying, "Bangles, crystal bangles!"
 
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.
 
I wish I were a hawker, spending my day in the road, crying, "Bangles, crystal bangles!"
 
When at four in the afternoon I come back from the school,
 
I can see through the gate of that house the gardener digging the ground.
 
He does what he likes with his spade, he soils his clothes with dust, nobody takes him to task if he gets ............