CHAPTER XXVIII.
In the meantime, alas! I had to spend many long and wearisome hours in going through the form of studying my lessons.
Topffer, who is the only real poet of school-boys, that genus so misunderstood, divides us into three groups: first, those who are in boarding schools; second, those who do all their studying at home at a window which overlooks a gloomy courtyard containing a twisted old fig tree; third, those who also study at home in a bright little room whose window commands a view of the street.
I belonged to that third class whom Topffer considers extraordinarily privileged, and as likely, in consequence, to grow up into happy men.
My room was upon the first floor, and it opened into the street; it had white curtains, and its green paper was embellished with bouquets of white roses.

Near the window was my work desk, and above it, upon a book-shelf, was my very much neglected library.
In fine weather I always opened this window, but I kept my venetian blinds half-closed, so that I might look out without having my idleness seen, and reported by a meddlesome neighbor.

Morning and evening I glanced to the end of the quiet street that stretched its sunny length between the white country houses and lost itself among the old trees growing beyond the ramparts.

I could see from there the occasional passers-by, all well known to me, the neighborhood cats that prowled within doorways or upon house-tops, the swifts darting about in the warm air, and the swallows skimming along the dusty street.

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