The children used to kick and scrape it off the fences, and their parents rub it off the walls by leaning against them in a tired way for hours at a stretch.

On hot summer nights the houses emptied their inhabitants on to the verandas and footpaths.

The children, swarming like rabbits, played in the middle of the road.

With clasped hands they formed a ring, and circled joyously to a song of childland, the immemorial rhymes handed down from one generation to another as savages preserve tribal rites.

The fresh, shrill voices broke on the air, mingled with silvery peals of laughter.
What will you give to know her name, Know her name, know her name?
What will you give to know her name, On a cold and frosty morning?
Across the street comes a burst of coarse laughter, and a string of foul, obscene words on the heels of a jest.