...
Manuel cast a look of satisfaction through the chink of the door to
the dark ditch outside. In the corral the hens were scratching the
earth; a hog was rooting about, running in fright from one side to the
other, grunting and quivering with nervous tremours; Reverte was
yawning, blinking gravely, and one of the donkeys was wallowing
delightedly amidst broken pots, decayed baskets and heaps of refuse,
while the other, as if scandalized by such unrefined comportment,
contemplated him with the utmost surprise.
All this black earth filled Manuel with an impression of ugliness, yet
at the same time with a sense of tranquillity and shelter; it seemed a
proper setting for him. This soil formed the daily deposits of the
dumping-place; this earth, whose sole products were old sardine-cans,
oyster shells, broken combs and shattered pots; this earth, black and
barren, composed of the detritus of civilization, of bits of lime and
mortar and factory refuse, of all that the city had cast off as
useless, seemed to Manuel a place made especially for him, for he
himself was a bit of the flotsam and jetsam likewise cast adrift by
the life of the city.
Manuel had seen no other fields than the sad, rocky meadows of Soria
and the still sadder ones of the Madrilenian suburbs. He did not
suspect that in spots uncultivated by man there were green meadows,
leafy woods, beds of flowers; he thought that trees and flowers were
born only in the gardens of the rich.
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