From a Bench in Our Square

by Samuel Hopkins Adams

“What’re you doing? Leave it be!” cried the anguished artist. “It’s been there since noon.”

“Never mind,” put in Bobbie softly; “it’s very pretty and tasteful even though it is a little precipitate. But how”—she turned the lovely and puzzled inquiry of her eyes upon the symbolist—“how did you know?”

“Artistic intuition,” said Peter Quick Banta with profound complacency. “I’m an artist.”

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THE HOUSE OF SILVERY VOICES

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 in the middle register.

Then from some far-off aerie would ring the tocsin of an elfin silversmith, fast, furious, and tiny: