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. . . ".
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