Scene at 11 Hill Road. The yard is surrounded by a stone wall about 4 feet high and, on top of wall, a low iron fence. Some man, name unknown but having a familiar face, is holding the gate open for several children, evidently to get them off the street and away from traffic hazards. Certain patches on the lawn have been heavily top dressed with soil, and part of the lawn reseeded. I am rather fearful that the children, trampling about (their tracks are plainly visible in the fresh soil) will kill some of the seedlings. By this time the wall is lined with people, as close together as they can stand, and the front yard is fairly well filled. A noisy argument is taking place, and I push my way through the mob in the yard to a spot near the fence where the loudest voices are raised; my purpose is to find the cause of the uproar. One lady on the fence seems to have been very unfortunate in several ways, and is now eager to get some place where she believes her burdens will be lightened. I offer to take her in my car, and jump up on stone wall in order to assist her over the iron fence. Her skirts are ankle length, and we are careful that they do not catch on the iron posts -- the skirts being held up first in front, and then behind. Another lady nearby, attempts to get over the iron fence, whereupon the first lady advises her to stay at home and keep her kids at home. I concur in this, as the kids referred to apparently are among the crowd of noisy, destructive, and ill-mannered brats that formerly bothered me a great deal. I now go inside house, and find that the mob has left things in confusion. There is excelsior scattered everywhere. I can't find my light colored seersucker trousers, or my shirt, but my mother tells me they (i.e., the mob) had thrown my trousers (names place); and my shirt if underneath a pile of pasteboard cartons which sit on the wood box in the kitchen. I ask my mother, "Why, oh why, do these rough-necks persist in picking on this place," and she says, "Because there are so many people living in this neighborhood." This seems to me an insufficient explanation, and I repeat the question, whereupon my mother says, "This is the only place having a large enough yard." She then starts to sweep up the excelsior with a broom, but I lead her to another chair and urge her to sit down. I then kneel and ask, "You know you really shouldn't do that work, don't you?" She seems hurt, but sets down.