lamp at the corner. On the porch opposite, to the accompaniment of shouts of ribald laughter, the Atkinson twins were entertaining their boy friends. The Countess recognized the voices of Chet Porter and Ray Cameron. From another house, a little farther away, drifted the tinkle of mandolins. In the street below a band of children had gathered around a bon-fire. Another group was playing Pom-Pom-Pullaway and Prisoner's Base. She could hear the shrill treble of a boy's voice counting out:
Catch a nigger by the toe,
When he hollers let him go,
Eenie, meenie, minie, moe.
A little later, yet more shrilly, this variant:
Feenie, feenie, finie, foe,
Amanutser, papatutser,
Ring-a-ban-JO!
Then the inevitable: You're IT! Victorias, landaus, surreys passed, their wheels rattling, the horses' hoofs clattering, on the worn cedar-blocks of the pavement. The Countess recognized some of the occupants of these vehicles. Hats were lifted; bows exchanged.
The air was delicious; it was warm but it bore a delicately ambiguous fragrance as its essence.
