It isn’t a dream....  It comes again and again....  You hear ivy crying on steeples the flames haven’t caught yet and images screaming when they see red light on the lilies on the stained glass window of St. Joseph.  The girl with the black eyes holds you tight, and you run... and run past the wild, wild towers... and trees in the gardens tugging at their feet and little frightened dolls shut up in the shops crying... and crying... because no one stops... you spin like a penny thrown out in the street.  Then the man clutches her by the hair....  He always clutches her by the hair....  His eyes stick out like spears.  You see her pulled-back face and her black, black eyes lit up by the glare....  Then everything goes out.  Please God, don’t let me dream any more of the girl with the black, black eyes.

     :  : 

Celia’s shadow rocks and rocks... and mama’s eyes stare out of the pillow as though she had gone away and the night had come in her place as it comes in empty rooms... you can’t bear it—­ the night threshing about and lashing its tail on its sides as bold as a wolf that isn’t afraid—­ and you scream at her face, that is white as a stone on a grave and pull it around to the light, till the night draws backward... the night that walks alone and goes away without end.  Mama says, I am cold, Betty, and shivers.  Celia tucks the quilt about her feet, but I run for my little red cloak because red is hot like fire.

     :  : 

I wish Celia could see the sea climb up on the sky and slide off again... ...Celia saying I’d beg the world with you....  Celia... holding on to the cab... hands wrenched away... wind in the masts... like Celia crying....  Celia never minded if you slapped her when the comb made your hairs ache, but though you rub your cheek against mama’s hand she has not said darling since....  Now I will slap her again....  I will bite her hand till it bleeds.

It is cool by the port hole. 
The wet rags of the wind
flap in your face.

II

THE ALLEY

Because you are four years old the candle is all dressed up in a new frill.  And stars nod to you through the hole in the curtain, (except the big stiff planets too fat to move about much,) and you curtsey back to the stars when no one is looking.  You feel sorry for the poor wooden chair that knows it isn’t nice to sit on, and no one is sad but mama.  You don’t like mama to be sad when you are four years old, so you pretend you like the bitter gold-pale tea—­ you pretend if you don’t drink it up pretty quick a little gold-fish will think it is a pond and come and get born in it.

     :  : 

It’s hot in our street and the breeze is a dirty little broom that sweeps dust into our room and bits of paper out of the alley.  You are not let to play with the children in the alley But you must be very polite—­ so you pass them and say good day and when they fling banana skins you fling them back again.