it was a warm day in early august and the four children were sitting contentedly in the swing. they met almost every afternoon now, but were generally kept under strict surveillance by miss minerva.
“'twon't be long 'fore we'll all hafto go to school,” remarked frances, “and i'll be mighty sorry; i wish we didn't ever hafto go to any old school.”
“i wisht we knowed how to read an' write when we's born,” said billy. “if i was god i'd make all my babies so's they is already eddicated when they gits born. reckon if we'd pray evy night an' ask god, he'd learn them babies what he's makin' on now how to read an' write?”
“i don' care nothing at all 'bout them babies,” put in jimmy, “'tain't going to do us no good if all the new babies what doctor sanford finds can read and write; it'd jes' make 'em the sassiest things ever was. 'sides, i got plenty things to ask god for 'thout fooling long other folks' brats, and i ain't going to meddle with god's business nohow.”
“did you all hear what miss larrimore, who teaches the little children at school, said about us?” asked lina importantly.
“naw,” they chorused, “what was it?”
“she told the super'ntendent,” was the reply of lina, pleased with herself and with that big word, “that she would have to have more money next year, for she heard that lina hamilton, frances black, william hill, and jimmy garner were all coming to school, and she said we were the most notorious bad children in town.”
“she is the spitefullest woman they is,” jimmy's black eyes snapped; “she 'bout the meddlesomest teacher in that school.”
“who telled you 'bout it, lina?” questioned the other little girl.
“the super'ntendent told his wife and you know how some ladies are,—they just can't keep a secret. now it is just like burying it to tell mother anything; she never tells anybody but father, and grandmother, and grandfather, and uncle ed, and brother johnson, and she makes them promise never to breathe it to a living soul. but the super'ntendent's wife is different; she tells ever'thing she hears, and now everybody knows what that teacher said about us.”
“everybody says she is the crankiest teacher they is,” cried jimmy, “she won't let you bring nothing to school 'cepting your books; you can't even take your slingshot, nor your air-gun, nor—”
“nor your dolls,” chimed in frances, “and she won't let you bat your eye, nor say a word, nor cross your legs, nor blow your nose.”
“what do she think we's goin' to her of school fer if we can't have fun?” asked billy. “tabernicle sho' had fun when he went to school. he put a pin in the teacher's chair an' she set down on it plumb up to the head, an' he tie the strings together what two nigger gals had they hair wropped with, an' he squoze up a little boy's legs in front of him with a rooster foot tell he squalled out loud, an' he th'owed spitballs, an' he make him some watermelon teeth, an' he paint a chicken light red an' tuck it to the teacher fer a dodo, an' he put cotton in his pants 'fore he got licked, an' he drawed the teacher on a slate. that's what you go to school fer is to have fun, an' i sho' is goin' to have fun when i goes, an' i ain't goin' to take no bulldozin' offer her, neither.”
“i bet we can squelch her,” cried frances, vindictively.
“yes, we'll show her a thing or two”—for once jimmy agreed with her, “she 'bout the butt-in-est old woman they is, and she's going to find out we 'bout the squelchingest kids ever she tackle.”
“alfred gage went to school to her last year,” said frances, “and he can read and write.”
“yes,” joined in jimmy, “and he 'bout the proudest boy they is; all time got to write his name all over everything.”
“you 'member 'bout last communion sunday,” went on the little girl, “when they hand roun' the little envellups and telled all the folks what was willing to give five dollars more on the pastor's sal'y just to write his name; so alfred he so frisky 'cause he know how to write; so he tooken one of the little envellups and wroten 'alfred gage' on it; so when his papa find out 'bout it he say that kid got to work and pay that five dollars hi'self, 'cause he done sign his name to it.”
“and if he ain't 'bout the sickest kid they is,” declared jimmy; “i'll betcher he won't get fresh no more soon. he telled me the other day he ain't had a drink of soda water this summer, 'cause every nickel he gets got to go to mr. pastor's sal'ry; he says he plumb tired supporting brother johnson and all his family; and, he say, every time he go up town he sees johnny johnson a-setting on a stool in baltzer's drug store just a-swigging milk-shakes; he says he going to knock him off some day 'cause it's his nickels that kid's a-spending.”
there was a short silence, broken by billy, who remarked, apropos of nothing:
“i sho' is glad i don't hafter be a 'oman when i puts on long pants, mens is heap mo' account.”
“i wouldn't be a woman for nothing at all,” jimmy fully agreed with him; “they have the pokiest time they is.”
“i'm glad i am going to be a young lady when i grow up,” lina declared, “i wouldn't be a gentleman for anything. i'm going to wear pretty clothes and be beautiful and be a belle like mother was, and have lots of lovers kneel at my feet on one knee and play the guitar with the other.”
“how they goin' to play the guitar with they other knee?” asked the practical billy.
“and sing 'call me thine own,'” she continued, ignoring his interruption. “father got on his knees to mother thirty-seven-and-a-half times before she'd say, 'i will.”'
“look like he'd 'a' wore his breeches out,” said billy.
“i don't want to be a lady,” declared frances; “they can't ever ride straddle nor climb a tree, and they got to squinch up their waists and toes. i wish i could kiss my elbow right now and turn to a boy.”
