The months go by–bleak March and May-day heat– Harvest is over–winter well-nigh done– And still I say, “To-morrow we shall meet.” MAY PROBYN The Little Red Doctor sat on the far end of my bench. Snow fringed the bristling curve of his mustache. He shivered. “Dominie,” said he, “it’s a wild day.” I assented. “Dominie,” […]

Whenever Plooie went shuffling by my bench, I used to think of an old and melancholy song that my grandfather sang: “And his skin was so thin You could almost see his bones As he ran, hobble–hobble–hobble Over the stones.” Before I could wholly recapture the quaint melody, my efforts would invariably be nullified by […]

Immediately upon hearing of my fell design MacLachan, the tailor, paid a visit of protest to my bench. “Is it true fact that I hear, Dominie?” “What do you hear, MacLachan?” “That ye’re to make one of yer silly histories about Barbran?” “Perfectly true,” said I, passing over the uncomplimentary adjective. “‘Tis a feckless waste […]

I Mayme Mccartney was a bad little good girl. She inspired (I trust) esteem for her goodness. But it was for her hardy and happy impudence, her bent for ingenious mischief, her broad and catholic disrespect for law, conventions, proprieties and persons, and the glint of the devil in her black eyes that we really […]

As far as the eye could apprehend him, he was palpably an outlander. No such pink of perfection ever sprung from the simple soil of Our Square. A hard pink it was, suggestive less of the flower than of enameled metal. He was freshly shaved, freshly pressed, freshly anointed, and, as he paced gallantly across […]

Long ago I made an important discovery. It comes under the general head of statics and is this: by occupying an invariable bench in Our Square, looking venerable and contemplative and indigenous, as if you had grown up in that selfsame spot, you will draw people to come to you for information, and they will […]

Wayfarers on the far side of Our Square used to stop before Number 37 and wonder. The little house, it seemed, was making music at them. “Kleam, kleam, kleam, kleam,” it would pipe pleasantly. “BHONG! BHONG! BHONG!” solemn and churchly, in rebuke of its own levity. “Kung-glang! Kung-glang! Kung-glang! Kung-glang! Kung-glang!” That was a duet […]

I Peter (flourish-in-red) Quick (flourish-in-green) Banta (period-in-blue) is the style whereby he is known to Our Square. Summertimes he is a prop and ornament of Coney, that isle of the blest, whose sands he models into gracious forms and noble sentiments, in anticipation of the casual dime or the munificent quarter, wherewith, if you have […]