She threw her thoughts into the past with an immense regret.

A group on the kerbstone broke into song: Now, honey, yo' stay in yo' own back yard, Doan min' what dem white chiles do; What show yo' suppose dey's a-gwine to gib A little black coon like yo'?
So stay on this side of the high boahd fence, An', honey, doan cry so hard; Go out an' a-play, jes' as much as yo' please, But stay in yo' own back yard.
The tune, with a taking lilt in it, made no impression on the old woman.

And she thought with regret that the old tunes had died out with the people who sang them.

These people had lost the trick of enjoying themselves in a simple manner.

Ah for the good old times, when the street was as good as a play, and the people drank and quarrelled and fought and sang without malice! A meaner race had come in their stead, with meaner habits and meaner vices.