projected from the house where my childhood was spent. I closed my eyes to shut out the last seen picture, and saw in my memory a vivid picture of the square as it was years ago.
At the end of the square runs East Stream. In my memory it is not covered over as now, but runs freely through the town under bridges and through banks with leafy, knotted trees. It is full of boats and tiny craft selling fish, wooden shoes, and earthenware pots, and, all through the autumn, fruit. The square, and even the neighbouring streets, are wrapped in a delicious perfume of spicy Bergamotte pears and sweet-smelling apples.
The other end of the square is dominated by the yellow painted King's House with its castellated gables. Here it is that the town's old stork-papas hold their meetings on summer afternoons. They stand one on each of the offsets of the gables. On the highest point is the president, who opens the meeting with a loud cackle. After this they all cackle in chorus, all these worthy storks, and those who only listen stand sometimes on one leg out of pure eagerness. But it happens sometimes that the whole assembly is dissolved in general altercation; they all flap their wings vigorously, and furiously cackle into each other's faces. It may also happen that some energetic stork-mamma or some saucy stork-baby will attempt to force themselves into the discussion, only to be thrust back so roughly that the feathers fly about. The old King's House! What sorrow there was the
