Today is the anniversary of that afternoon in April a year ago that I first saw the strange and appealing doll ( 玩 具 娃 娃 ) in the window of Abe Sheftel’ s toy shop on Third Avenue near Fifth Street, just around the corner from my office, where the plate on the door reads: Dr. Samuel Amory. I remember just how it was that day: the first hint of spring floated across the East River, mixing with the soft-coal smoke from the factories and the street smells of the poor neighborhood. As I turned the corner on my way to work and came to Sheftel’s, I was made once more aware of the poor collection of toys in the dusty window, and I remembered the approaching birthday of a small niece of mine in Cleveland, to whom I was in the habit of sending modest gifts. Therefore, I stopped and examined the window to see if there might be anything suitable, and looked at the confusing collection of unappealing objects-a red toy fire engine, some lead soldiers, cheap baseballs, bottles of ink, pens, yellowed envelopes, and advertisements for soft-drinks. And thus it was that my eyes ually came to rest upon the doll stored away in one corner, a doll with the strangest, most charming expression on her face. I could not wholly make her out, due to the shadows and the film of dust through which I was looking, but I was aware that a tremendous impression had been made upon me as though I had run into a person, as one does sometimes with a stranger, with whose personality one is deeply impressed. Why did the author go past Sheftel’s