that
balanced on a coiled spring at the foot of the stairs. This ringing
announced the arrival of Becky, the old scrubwoman who came each
morning to sweep out the shop and clean the floors for the day's
traffic. Roger, in his old dressing gown of vermilion flannel, would
scuffle down to let her in, picking up the milk bottles and the paper
bag of baker's rolls at the same time. As Becky propped the front door
wide, opened window transoms, and set about buffeting dust and tobacco
smoke, Roger would take the milk and rolls back to the kitchen and give
Bock a morning greeting. Bock would emerge from his literary kennel,
and thrust out his forelegs in a genial obeisance. This was partly
politeness, and partly to straighten out his spine after its all-night
curvature. Then Roger would let him out into the back yard for a run,
himself standing on the kitchen steps to inhale the bright freshness of
the morning air.

This Saturday morning was clear and crisp. The plain backs of the
homes along Whittier Street, irregular in profile as the margins of a
free verse poem, offered Roger an agreeable human panorama. Thin
strands of smoke were rising from chimneys; a belated baker's wagon was
joggling down the alley; in bedroom bay-windows sheets and pillows were
already set to sun and air. Brooklyn, admirable borough of homes and
hearty breakfasts, attacks the morning hours in cheery, smiling spirit.
Bock sniffed and rooted about the small back yard as though the earth
(every cubic inch of which he already knew by rote) held some new
entrancing flavour. Roger watched him with the amused and tender
condescension one always feels toward a happy dog--perhaps the same
mood of tolerant paternalism that Gott is said to have felt in watching
his boisterous Hohenzollerns.

The nipping air began to infiltrate his dressing gown, and Roger
returned to the kitchen, his small, lively face alight with zest. He
opened the draughts in the range, set a kettle on to boil, and went
down to resuscitate the furnace. As he came upstairs for his bath,
Mrs. Mifflin was descending, fresh and hearty in a starchy morning
apron. Roger hummed a tune as he picked up the hairpins on the bedroom
floor, and wondered to himself why women are always supposed to be more
tidy than men.

Titania was awake early. She smiled at the enigmatic portrait of
Samuel Butler, glanced at the row of books over her bed, and dressed
rapidly. She ran downstairs, eage