The Children’s Hour
Between nine and ten in the evening,
When the bell rings in ‘Taylor tower,
Comes a pause in the day’s occupations
That is known as the Children’s Hour.
I hear on the sidewalk behind me
The patter of little feet.
Strange figures go scuttling forward
And into the gym retreat.
From the doorway I see in the limelight,
Panting to do and to dare,
Cousin Alys, the inexhaustible Apple,
And Jane Smith on a regular tear.
A whisper and then a silence,
Yet | know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take some exercise.
A sudden rush for a partner,
A sudden dash for the Vic.
To the sound of enticing music
They begin to wriggle and kick.
They drag me into a circle.
Of my comfort they know not nor care.
If I trv to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.
My arms they tear from the sockets,
My feet rarely touch the ground.
I pant and groan; still, though I moan,
The mad crowd shoves me round.
But though I rebel (ll remember,
Yes, forever and a day,
Cousin Alys twirling, her long skirt swirling,
And Hilda whooping away.
UrsuLa
ao
BaTCHELDER.
