The scenery of the New Year days was so lovely. Birds flapped their wings, twittering in the green trees, and people went in flocks to watch the exciting display of the regatta. My friends and I were talking in front of my house while watching people passing.
"Look, girl! Do you see him? The man at the corner is your father, isn't he? You look like him"¦ha"¦ha"¦ha," my friend, Tom, was laughing at me.
My face turned red. I said, "What's wrong with you, people? Don't joke like that"¦please." I was really embarrassed and mad. I knew they were still teasing me and assuming an untrue relationship between him--the beggar--and me. But I didn't care much about what my friends said; my mind was now pointed to that beggar.
The presence of the old man sitting with arms clasping his knees broke the noisy atmosphere. I didn't know his real name, where he came from, or who his family was, nor did anyone in my small town. He was a very mysterious man. Once in a while, some spoiled children saw him; they threw sand at him, yelling, "Beggar man"¦beggar man"¦." From that time, "Beggar" became his name.
*He looked so different from everyone else. Immediately, at the first glance, anyone could recognize he was a poor beggar. Beggar wore a threadbare, faded brown shirt. Especially, while he was sitting, his back was bent like a thin