There is in the fleeting colors of Autumn, a brushstroke of melancholy writing, which reminds us -even if it is by using that decidedly evil spirit, which directs at its whim the metaphorical car of runaway horses that is the Imagination- those immortal works, which helped us to grow when in our lives it seemed that all seasons were spring.

Whenever I walk through this place and see this beautiful cabin of reeds, located at the foot of the peaceful waters of a pond, if not enchanted, yes charming, I remember that unrepentant dreamer who was Mark Twain and I feel, or rather, I feel that on these shores of an imaginary Mississippi, the least expected day, I have to stumble upon Tom Sawyer and Huckelberry Fynn.

And who assures to my unbridled Imagination - nice treasure, that for want of good bread they are cakes - that after all, this is not the mythical cabin of Uncle Tom ?.

NOTICE: Both the text and the photographs that accompany it are my exclusive intellectual property.