Essay About Young Man And Own Face

The Rag Man
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Even before the dawn one Friday morning I noticed a young man, handsome 
and strong, walking the alleys of our City. He was pulling an old cart filled with 
clothes both bright and new, and he was calling in a clear, tenor voice: “Rags!” 
Ah, the air was foul and the first light filthy to be crossed by such sweet music.

“Rags! New rags for old! I take your tired rags! Rags!”
“Now, this is a wonder,” I thought to myself, for the man stood six-feet-four, 
and his arms were like tree limbs, hard and muscular, and his eyes flashed 
intelligence. Could he find no better job than this, to be a ragman in the inner 
city?

I followed him. My curiosity drove me. And I wasnt disappointed.
Soon the Ragman saw a woman sitting on her back porch. She was sobbing 
into a handkerchief, sighing, and shedding a thousand tears. Her knees and 
elbows made a sad X. Her shoulders shook. Her heart was breaking. The 
Ragman stopped his cart. Quietly, he walked to the woman, stepping round tin 
cans, dead toys, and Pampers.

“Give me your rag,” he said so gently, “and Ill give you another.”
He slipped the handkerchief from her eyes. She looked up, and he laid across 
her palm a linen cloth so clean and new that it shined. She blinked from the gift 
to the giver.

Then, as he began to pull his cart again, the Ragman did a strange thing: he 
put her stained handkerchief to his own face; and then HE began to weep, to 
sob as grievously as she had done, his shoulders shaking. Yet she was left 
without a tear.

“This IS a wonder,” I breathed to myself, and I followed the sobbing Ragman 
like a child who cannot turn away from mystery.
“Rags! Rags! New rags for old!”
In a little while, when the sky showed grey behind the rooftops and I could 
see the shredded curtains hanging out black windows, the Ragman came upon a 
girl whose head was wrapped in a bandage, whose eyes were empty. Blood 
soaked her bandage. A single line of blood ran down her cheek.

Now the tall Ragman looked upon this child with pity, and he drew a lovely 
yellow bonnet from his cart.
“Give me your rag,” he said, tracing his own line on her cheek, “and Ill give 
you mine.”
The child could only gaze at him while he loosened the bandage, removed it, 
and tied it to his own head. The bonnet he set on hers. And I gasped at what 
I saw: for with the bandage went the wound! Against his brow it ran a darker, 
more substantial blood – his own!

“Rags! Rags! I take old rags!” cried the sobbing, bleeding, strong, intelligent 
Ragman.
The sun hurt both the sky, now, and my eyes; the Ragman seemed more and 
more to hurry.
“Are you going to work?” he asked a man who leaned against a telephone pole. 
The man shook his head.
The Ragman pressed him: “Do you have a job?”
“Are you crazy?” sneered the other. He pulled away from the pole, revealing 
the right sleeve of his jacket – flat, the cuff stuffed into the pocket. He had no 
arm.

“So,” said the Ragman. “Give me your jacket, and Ill give you mine.”
Such quiet authority in his voice!
The one-armed man took off his jacket. So did the Ragman – and I trembled at 
what I saw: for the Ragmans arm stayed in its sleeve, and when the other put it 
on he had two good arms, thick as tree limbs; but the Ragman had only one.