A little boy
It was June 1947. I had just returned home from my daily errands when the knok at the door perplexed me to the core. And thus to my mind's subtler point there stood a boy with a bowl in his hand. He was a professional beggar who wanted to mint money out of begging in that way. I asked him to come inside my snug house of red brick abode built sumptuous living. So he came up to me and sat there puzzled himself at my hospitality. But once he was inside my dinning room, I made him go upstairs to the
