GOLDEN AUTUMN
My memory often carries me back to a picture of an ideally happy couple whom I met when on a visit to Czecho-Slovakia. They were the pastor and his wife of a little village called Zablati, which lies in a valley by a little river surrounded by distant mountains. The steeple of the little white church can be seen above the thatched roofs of the cottages, and near it is the house of the Protestant pastor and a small school, now deserted and fallen into dilapidation. The stream shines white in the sunshine as it gurgles over the clear rocks and on the bank the sails of the mill turn rhythmically and the yellow pumpkins are ripening in the sun amidst their thick green foliage. The smoke rises from the cottages standing amongst the fruit trees, where the evening meal is being prepared.
I was one of a party of four which included two women who lived in the neighborhood-Vivostchka, a poetess, and a woman politician-as well as Dacha, a baby girl of a year old. On arrival we went to see the pastor who lived in a small cottage. The two rooms looked onto the court and the old beams roofing the kitchen and cellar were dark and mellow with age. Our approach up the worn pathway of the sloping garden frightened the hens scratching in the soil and scattered them in all directions.
At our knock the pastor’s wife came to the door, hastily wiping her hands on her apron, for she had been preparing fruit for winter use. She was short and plump, very much like one of the popular Russian dolls made of blocks of carved and painted wood.
Though she had never seen or heard of us she received us hospitably; we were guests, and that sufficed. Even the rustic room had an air of welcome. However, we could see that she was embarrassed by the unexpectedness of our visit, for in a
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