A vivid picture, illustrating puerile peevishness.
In the thousands of years that street plays have been enacted by the youngsters, no poet's, philosopher's, nor teacher's words have been more to the point. Every child wants to take the most prominent part in a game, but all cannot be chief mourners, else there will be no sympathising weepers.
"Who'll be chief mourner? I, said the dove,
I'll mourn for my love."
To-day things are better arranged, a counting-out rhyme settles the question of appointment to the coveted post. Like the
"Zickety, dickety, dock, the mouse ran up the clock"
of the north-country children.
"Whoever I touch must be he"
ends and begins the counting-out verse of the Southern youngsters, which runs as follows—
"1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7,
All good children go to heaven.
My mother says the last one I touch must be he."
Of the numerous variations of this rhyme the one at present in demand by London children is—