The town itself, let us admit, is ugly. It has a smug, placid air and you need time to dis

The town itself, let us admit, is ugly. It has a smug, placid air and you need time to discover what it is that makes it different from so many business centers in other parts of the world. How to conjure up a picture, for instance, of a town without pigeons, without any trees or gardens, where you never hear the beat of wings or the rustle of leaves—a thoroughly negative place, in short？ The seasons are discriminated only in the sky. All that tells you of springs coming is the feel of the air, or the baskets of flowers brought in from the suburbs by peddlers; its a spring cried in the market-places. During the summer, the sun bakes the houses bone-dry, sprinkles our walls with grayish dust, and you have no option but to survive those days of fire indoors, behind closed shutters. In autumn, on the other hand, we have deluges of mud. Only winter brings really pleasant weather.

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