A Boy, and the Feather

The day was long, the road was dusty, but on he must continue. Would life ever be any different. Would every day begin with feather dusters and end with dusters. Work from early morning until past the close of day. His is the life of one who is not well off. There is no loafing around, there is no playing of games, school is not an option for this hardworking lad. Work, work and more work was the only way he could better himself.

Another home-another rejection. As our lad was leaving the home of a women who was not interested in his quality of dusters he lost one of the feathers to the floor. This women of style could not stand anything out of place and the feather on her floor was almost more than she could bare. She stood staring at the feather, full of great disgust and loathsomeness for this feather, all feathers, the duster this feather came from and the boy who had brought this feather to her home.

Slowly she bent down to pick up the feather. Now between her pinched fingers in an outstretched hand she writhed at the feather that dared to come into her home. Even more slowly she walked with outstretched hand toward the side door. In came a maid and side stepped to avoid her mistress on an obvious errand. The feather was on its way out.

As this obsessed women passed through the door she saw him. The boy with the feather dusters. She raised her head and stared at him as he left the yard. The feather in her hand blew away with the wind. The breeze kicked up and ruffled her hair. The dusters were blowing in the wind. She turned and let them go, the boy and the feather. Another rejection-another day.