In Eumaeus' hut

Abstract

I was ten years old, that wonderful chronological period when one has finally passed into the double figures. Beneath the elm, behind the trellis, a trading post had appearea among us. The days had become treasure hunts for color, texture, form, as through the morning and early afternoon, I gauged the worth of all the objects the world presented. I was confident in the summer. Every tree and yard contained valuables that I could estimate, promote, and exchange in the happy, argumentative dickerings of our meetings. The days collected, fell spherical and firm as ripened apples. The adventuresome anticipation that each contained only made them more complete. Mellow and golden, rounding like a faintly trembling drop of water, the day would swell into the afternoon, and then we would meet on the worn brown patch of earth beneath the elm.