Part 38 (2/2)

'I was dest pertendin' I was a little puppy dog,' Stanislaus murmured softly.

'Pretending you were a _puppy_ dog!' roared the man. 'Well, if I hadn't ditched my machine--! A _puppy dog_, indeed!'

Stanislaus was turned over to Miss Lyman for very severe chastis.e.m.e.nt.

He shed bitter tears, and in the midst of them his instigator's name came out.

'G-gwey said he al'us barked at aut'mobiles--dest barked an' barked at 'em--dest whenever he got weady,' he sobbed.

'If you ever do such a dreadful thing again, I shall give you the very worst whipping you ever had,' Miss Lyman scolded. 'Little blind boys have got to learn to be careful where they walk.'

To which Stanislaus made the astonis.h.i.+ng reply:--

'Gwey says he dest walked anywhere he got weady when he was little--'fore he got _his_ eyes open.'

That was the first hint that Miss Lyman got of it. Afterwards she and Miss Cynthia--Stanislaus's teacher--caught constant glimpses of a curious idea that dodged in and out of the little boy's flow of talk. A queer, elusive, will-o'-the-wisp idea, caught one minute, gone the next, yet informing all the child's dreams and happy castles of the future.

At first they compared notes on the subject.

'What do you suppose Stanny has got into his head?' Miss Lyman demanded of Miss Cynthia. 'When I told him that Kent Woodward had a little sister, he said, ”Has s'e got her eyes open yet?”

'Yes,' agreed Miss Cynthia; 'and when I happened to say that Jimmie Nickle was the biggest blind boy in school, he said he must be awful stupid not to have got his eyes open yet.'

But afterwards they both by common consent avoided the subject. This was because each dreaded that the other might confirm a fear that was shaping itself in their minds.

It is probable that these two loved Stanislaus better than any one else loved him in all the world. Certainly if his father cared more for him, he did not take the trouble to show it, having seemingly washed his hands of the little fellow after turning him over to the school. It was partly his delightful trick of individualizing people in general, and his friends in particular, that had so endeared him to these two. 'I al'us know when it's you,' he confided to Miss Lyman, as he played with her chatelaine, ''cause I hear vese tinkly fings coming way and away, 'fore you gits here.' While to Miss Cynthia he said, 'I al'us knows you by vat sweet smell.' And often he surprised them by such remarks as 'You don't like wainy days, do you, Miss Lyman? I heard you tell Miss Cyn-fee-ia vat wainy days de-de-depwessed you.' He got the big word out after a struggle. 'I fink,' he added, 'vat wainy days de-depwess me too.'

This last remark was simply an extra flourish of politeness on his part.

Nothing ever really depressed him, and when he said, 'Miss Cyn-fee-ia says s'e likes to laugh; I fink I like to laugh too,' he came much nearer the truth. He did like to laugh, and he loved life and all it had to offer him. Each morning was a wonderful gift to him, and his days went by like a chain of golden beads strung together on a thread of delight.

It was because of his delight in life, and because they loved him, and could not bear that Fate should p.r.i.c.k any of his rainbow bubbles, that both Miss Lyman and Miss Cynthia avoided the subject after they had once discovered what tragic little hope his mind was fostering.

Miss Julia, however, was different. Her sensibilities did not lead her into by-paths of pathos; therefore, when she chanced upon Stanislaus's little secret, she joyfully proclaimed it.

'Well, if that little Stanislaus isn't the funniest child I ever _did_ see!' she began one evening in the teachers' hall. 'Why, if you'll believe me, he thinks that children are like kittens and puppies, and are all born blind, and after a while they get their eyes open just like cats and dogs. He thinks he is big enough now to have his eyes open 'most any day. Well, I didn't tell him any better, but I thought I should die laughing.'

Here Miss Lyman and Miss Cynthia rose with one accord, and left the teachers' hall. Upstairs in Miss Lyman's room they faced each other.

'You knew?' Miss Cynthia half questioned, half a.s.serted.

'How can I help knowing!' Miss Lyman cried pa.s.sionately. 'He's always telling me what he's going to do when ”I'm big an' can see.” It _isn't_ a foolish idea! It's a perfectly natural one. Some one has told him about puppies and kittens, and of _course_ he thought children were the same way. It isn't foolish, it's--'

'You've got to tell him the truth,' Miss Cynthia interposed.

'I won't,' Miss Lyman declared. 'All his dreams and hopes are centred on that idea.'

'If you don't tell him, the other boys will find it out soon and laugh at him, and that will be worse.'

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