The morning of 20th January. Brushing the snow from his fur, the Fox of Greenwich Village sat down by the far window in the coffee shop. He ordered cinnamon toast and a pot of coffee. He was meeting a friend, an old badger, a professor at NYU, who arrived not long afterwards, ordering more coffee and a slice of chocolate layer cake.
"Well," said the Fox, at last, "here we are, Prof. The day itself."
"I often think of Hazlitt's words," said the Badger, carefully pouring cream, "'Egotism is an infirmity that perpetually grows upon a man, till at last he cannot bear to think of anything but himself, nor even to suppose that others do.' That sort of poisonous fire never lasts, it may flame and rain sparks for a while, suck in the air around it, but it never lasts for very long in the great scheme of things. And God grinds exceptionally fine, exceptionally fine."
With that, the badger finished his cake, and lit his pipe. And together they watched the snow falling like feathers, a strange heavenly balm quietening the city's brawling roar.