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 wooden beams, and a perfect network of little galleries, where herrings are hung to dry on stretched cords, with creaky staircases and tumbled-down outhouses, which lean up against each other like drunken men. Here in the lofts, in the great corn-heaps, we played hide-and-seek; and every Saturday found me behind the counter in the Dutch woman's basement beershop, where I passed foaming beer and dram to the peasants and to my friend the cab-driver. My friend lived in a hole behind the stables, where, in an ever fresh atmosphere of horse-manure, he lived the happiest bachelor existence one can imagine, assisted by a spirit-kettle, a chunk of brown bread, a pot of lard, and a bit of carraway cheese. When the atmosphere grew merry in the low basement it was a special delight to give the aged cab-horse bread dipped in gin, which made it tear round the square like a wild Arab, spreading terror and consternation amongst the peasant women sitting with their stiff, wide skirts about the steps of the town-hall.

I open my eyes once more and look out across the sun-bright square. The town-hall is still there, also the old houses. I see the basement beershop's tiny green windows. I catch a glimpse of the stream winding in and out amongst the tumble-down houses, and over whose dilapidated poetry a single lilac-tree in an adjoining garden spreads its young, blossoming smile. Yes, I know again my old town, and I get up in a light-hearted mood with a tingling feeling that I am at home.