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Updated: June 8, 2025
She had loved the Square's old-fashioned primness, its tininess, its unchanging atmosphere of rest. It was scarcely invaded by the strum of London. In the cloud of greenness which drifted above its communal garden, one could still listen to the country sounds of birds.
"You have hit the nail on the head, square's a hatchet, parson," responded the deacon. "The congregation is thinning; the young people don't come to the meetings, and the little children are afraid of you." "What's the matter, deacon?" cried the parson, in return. "What is it?" he repeated, earnestly; "speak it right out; don't try to spare my feelings.
Square's triumph would almost have stopt his words, had he needed them; and Thwackum, who, for reasons before-mentioned, durst not venture at disobliging the lady, was almost choaked with indignation.
But without embarrassment she turned to him in the shadow of a brick wall surmounted by broken hoarding and pointed down a paved entry to a dark archway pierced in what seemed, by the light that shone from a candle stuck in a bottle at an uncurtained window, to be a very mean little house. "The Square's through here," she said.
But I like the table, and that's her show. She has the taste; but he must have money. See the festive picture over the sideboard? Looks to me like a Jacques Saillard. But that silver-table would be good enough for me." "Get on," said I. "You're in a bath-chair." "But the whole square's at dinner! We should have the ball at our feet. It wouldn't take two twos!"
None of the clocks keep it." "How does he manage his life, then?" "Willy Woolly does that for him. Barks him up in the morning. Jogs his elbow at mealtimes. Tucks him in bed at night, for all I know." Thus abortively ended Our Square's protest against Stepfather Time and his House of Silvery Voices.
Carthage was no longer quiet. It simmered to the boiling-over point. Once it had been Mrs. Budlong's pride to be the social leader of Carthage. She began to read New York society notes with expectancy, as one cons the Baedeker of a town one is approaching. She lay awake nights wondering what she should wear at Mrs. Stuyvesant Square's next party and at Mrs. Astor House's sociable.
Of all the countless numbers that take their pleasure walks upon the Calton Hill of Edinburgh, none that do not remember it an isolated spot, of awkward access, can have any recollection of Sergeant Square's tall and gaunt figure, his cue, cocked hat, gaiters, and military appearance, as he took his daily promenade around the airy and delightful walks, or sat upon its highest point, where Nelson's Monument now stands, in stately solitude, as if he had been the genius of the hill, resting his square and bony chin on the top of his gold-headed cane, with his immense hands serving as a cushion between.
Though apparently awestruck in his presence, the boys did not forget to play a few practical jokes on "the Square's" children, such as slapping them, and pinching their legs as they clambered wearily up.
Again Miss Greeb shook her head. "I know the back of No. 13 as well as I know my own face," she declared. "There's a yard and a fence, but no entrance. To get in there you have to go in by the front door or down the aiery steps; and you can't do neither without coming past Blinders at the square's entrance, and that," finished Miss Greeb triumphantly, "these visitors don't do."
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