E***, Harp of Waterland, finely decorated around the E, with a *** on the left of the middle, of the pure kind, such a yellowed lower bulge, of round cheese-fame, marked with citizenship, wavering in bed-wetting, therefore reformed. To walk here is to travel like a church-bough, with a raised light-sword, to gaze gothically on Warder in Douw, full-fledged elves, Celtic violins, and wings of the fortunate, prosperity that counts up to the last cent, shuffling on socks, under a wide-spread opinion, in a pattern of thought, for fresh plush, that ends on medieval bread-smell, looking out on greener grass, and free-school matinees, visitors painting, with dreams of backyards, full of hat-wearing, and skirts with ruches. Through every power-plant, the fragrance of delicacies, all fresh-of-day, crispy with red-green temperament, no orange-tom-pouze, but eclair, ap-dij-beer, and street-talk, in false-flat Dutch, as it goes. So a bastion for outsiders, who expect small-art and hockey somewhere, but can no longer see clubs, curious little clubs. They too, chapeau, for all that here, quiet and small-town, in calm resistance, the second-hand Calimero-hat, let the big neighbor fish, and the big Amstel, let the big Amstel water. From here, they can learn, to guide a sleeping-town to village-classes.