It has a window, eaves, weather-strips and a clothesline, for he does his own washing.

He trots off there very happily when his light work is done, and, when his door is closed, opens it for no one.

That scrap of a building is _Castagna's_ castle.

One evening I went to call on him, but he had put out his light.

In the gleam that came from the bowling alley behind me, something showed softly red and green and white against the wooden door.