I used to walk to Little Creek Park on a small road flanked by poplars,enjoying every step on the shady road with the ever-changing sceneryof vegetable farms,fish ponds,rows of farmers’houses,and thewoods.Instead of cars and buses,I felt happy to have donkeys,horse-drawn carts,and bicycle-riders as my companions.The sight of the rusty iron park railings,covered by the dark green BostonIvy,and the front gates often made me happy.Purple and white flowers ofmorning glory among the Boston Ivy were in blossom.Some trees in the parkstretched out their branches above the railings to wave their greetings to me.Inside the gates,there was a narrow and long road leading north,lined withdozens of oaks standing still like faithful guards.The uniforms on their trunks I used to walk to Little Creek Park on a small road flanked by poplars, enjoying every step on the shady road with the ever-changing sceneryof vegetable farms, fish ponds, rows of farmers’houses, and the woods. Instead of cars and buses, I felt happy to have donkeys, horse-drawn carts, and bicycle-riders as my companions. The sight of the rusty iron park railings, covered by the dark green BostonIvy, and the front gates often made me happy.Purple and white flowers ofmorning glory among the Boston Ivy were in blossom.Some trees in the parkstretched out their branches above the railings to wave their greetings to me.Inside the gates, there was a narrow and long road leading north, lined withdozens of oaks standing still like faithful guards The uniforms on their trunks