THIS evening, as I was about to enter my home, I saw two little girls bouncing a ball solemnly on the pavement to the rhythm of a very old little girls' chant. My lips must have gone gray as the sudden pressure of my set jaws numbed all feeling, blood pounded in my right temple; and I knew, that whatever might happen, I couldn't take another step until they had finished.
"One, two, three alary—
I spy Mistress Sary
Sitting on a bumble-ary.
Just like a little fairy!"
As the girl finished the last smug note,
I came to life. I unlocked the door of my
house and locked it behind me hurriedly. I
switched on the. lights in the foyer, the
kitchen, the library. And then, for long
forgotten minutes, I paced the floor until
my breatliing slowed and the horrible
memory cowered back into the crevice of
the years.
That verse! I don't hate children—no
matter what my friends say, I don't hate
children—but why do they have to sing
that stupid, little song? Whenever I'm
around. . . . As if the unspeakably vicious
creatures know what it does, to me. . . ".