When you hear the hatboxes roll down the stairs, you’d better get ready. Then the racket soon begins again up on the fourth floor, where they never seem to agree who should wear which hat. Then they stand up there and yell and tear the hats off each other: “That’s my hat!” resounds, and then immediately after that: “That’s my hat, my hat!” It can go on like this for hours, and all the while hat after hat is flying out the window. Nothing is more wonderful than this: to sit with your nose pressed up to the window, while hats of all shapes and sizes flutter down from the sky. As if they were birds who, slowly and hesitantly, for the first time, prepare for landing.