I lie down on many a station platform; I stand before many a soup kitchen; I squat on many a bench;--then at last the landscape becomes disturbing$$$ mysterious$$$ and familiar. It glides past the western windows with its villages$$$ their thatched roofs like caps$$$ pulled over the white-washed$$$ half-timbered houses$$$ its corn-fields$$$ gleaming like mother-of-pearl in the slanting light$$$ its orchards$$$ its barns and old lime trees. The names of the stations begin to take on meaning and my heart trembles. The train stamps and stamps onward. I stand at the window and hold on to the frame. These names mark the boundaries of my youth.