In winter-time, the snow will linger there, long after it has melted from the busy streets and highways.

The summer's sun holds it in some respect, and while he darts his cheerful rays sparingly into the square, keeps his fiery heat and glare for noisier and less-imposing precincts.

It is so quiet, that you can almost hear the ticking of your own watch when you stop to cool in its refreshing atmosphere.

There is a distant hum--of coaches, not of insects--but no other sound disturbs the stillness of the square.

The ticket porter leans idly against the post at the corner: comfortably warm, but not hot, although the day is broiling.