I can hear the voice emanating from the Philco radio. From here I can see the kitchen in one direction and, in the other, the fireplace and the table in the parlor. I climb up the inside cellar stairs and kneel patiently on the top step, waiting. I cross the cellar, which is dimly lit by the slanting sunlight entering through the outside door. It gives me access to experiences I might otherwise miss. The rest of the family is puzzled by my favored mode of entry, but I am quite content entering the house this way. The cellar stairs are damp, and as I pull open one side of the heavy horizontal doors, I smell the rich, loamy scent of ripened apples. I slip unobserved across the lawn to the back of the house and toward the outside cellar entrance. But from here, in my hiding place among the newly budding lilac bushes, they appear unapproachable. At church or in town, these people always have something friendly to say to me.
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