조지 오웰의 수필이다. It was late-afternoon. Forty-nine of us forty-eight men and one woman lay on the green waiting for the spike to open. We were too tired to talk much. We just sprawled about exhaustedly with home-made cigarettes sticking out of our scrubby faces. Overhead the chestnut branches were covered with blossom and beyond that great woolly clouds floated almost motionless in a clear sky. Littered on the grass we seemed dingy urban riff-raff. We defiled the scene like sardine-tins and paper bags on the seashore.
