I remember a cool gray interior, a woman with her bosom uncovered pattering barefoot to hand us the hospitable dipper, and a baby smothered in a deep cradle which hung by ropes from the ceiling.

Farther on, the empty road gave us shadows of trees and rustlings of long grass.

This, at least, is what I imagine over the spaces where no certain object is.

Then, I know, we ran and played, and it was father himself who hid in the corn, and we made havoc following after.

Laughing, we ramble on, till we hear the long, far whistle of a locomotive.