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soap, bottle, and rags than she, nor did a sponge longer
dangle from the frame of her slate.
On coming in from recess this same day, Emmy Lou found the pencil
on her desk again, the beautiful new pencil in the gilded paper. She put
it back.
But when she reached home, the pencil, the beautiful pencil that costs
all of five cents, was in her companion box along with her stumps and
her sponge and her grimy little slate rags. And about the pencil was
wrapped a piece of paper. It had the look of the margin of a Primer
page. The paper bore marks. They were not digits.
Emmy Lou took the paper to Aunt Cordelia. They were at dinner.
"Can't you read it, Emmy Lou?" asked Aunt Katie, the prettiest aunty.
Emmy Lou shook her head.
"I'll spell the letters," said Aunt Louise, the youngest aunty.
But they did not help Emmy Lou one bit.
Aunt Cordelia looked troubled. "She doesn't seem to be catching up,"
she said.
"No," said Aunt Katie.
"No," agreed Aunt Louise.
"Nor--on," said Uncle Charlie, the brother of the aunties, lighting up his
cigar to go downtown.

Aunt Cordelia spread the paper out. It bore the words:
"It is for you."
So Emmy Lou put the pencil away in the companion, and tucked it
about with the grimy slate rags that no harm might befall it. And the
next day she took it out and used it. But first she looked over at the
little boy. The little boy was busy. But when she looked up again, he
was looking.
The little boy grew red, and wheeling suddenly, fell to copying digits
furiously. And from that moment on the little boy was moved to
strange behavior.
Three times before recess did he, boldly ignoring the preface of
upraised hand, swagger up to Miss Clara's desk. And going and coming,
the little boy's boots with copper toes and run-down heels marked with
thumping emphasis upon the echoing boards his processional and
recessional. And reaching his desk, the little boy slammed down his
slate with clattering reverberations.
Emmy Lou watched him uneasily. She was miserable for him. She did
not know that there are times when the emotions are more potent than
the subtlest wines. Nor did she know that the male of some species is
moved thus to exhibition of prowess, courage, defiance, for the
impressing of the chosen female of the species.
Emmy Lou merely knew that she was miserable and that she trembled
for the little boy.
Having clattered his slate until Miss Clara rapped sharply, the little boy
rose and went swaggering on an excursion around the room to where
sat the bucket and dipper. And on his return he came up the center aisle
between the sheep and the goats.
Emmy Lou had no idea what happened. It took place behind her. But
there was another little girl who did. A little girl who boasted curls,
yellow curls in tiered rows about her head. A lachrymosal little girl,

who affected great horror of the little boys.
And what Emmy Lou failed to see was this: the little boy, in passing,
deftly lifted a cherished curl between finger and thumb and proceeded
on his way.
The little girl did not fail the little boy. In the suddenness of the
surprise she surprised even him by her outcry. Miss Clara jumped.
Emmy Lou jumped. And the sixty-nine jumped. And, following this,
the little girl lifted her voice in lachrymal lament.
Miss Clara sat erect. The Primer Class held its breath. It always held its
breath when Miss Clara sat erect. Emmy Lou held tightly to her desk
besides. She wondered what it was all about.
Then Miss Clara spoke. Her accents cut the silence.
"Billy Traver!"
Billy Traver stood forth. It was the little boy.
"Since you seem pleased to occupy yourself with the little girls, Billy,
go to the pegs!"
Emmy Lou trembled. "Go to the pegs!" What unknown, inquisitorial
terrors lay behind those dread, laconic words, Emmy Lou knew not.
She could only sit and watch the little boy turn and stump back down
the aisle and around the room to where along the wall hung rows of
feminine apparel.
Here he stopped and scanned the line. Then he paused before a hat. It
was a round little hat with silky nap and a curling brim. It had rosettes
to keep the ears warm and ribbon that tied beneath the chin. It was
Emmy Lou's hat. Aunt Cordelia had cautioned her to care concerning
it.
The little boy took it down. There seemed to be no doubt in his mind as
to what Miss Clara meant. But then he had been in the Primer Class

from the beginning.
Having taken the hat