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Updated: April 30, 2025
Politics might have followed next; but I was not so ill-fated. I wish you might know John A. Pescud. He is of the stuff that heroes are not often lucky enough to be made of. He is a small man with a wide smile, and an eye that seems to be fixed upon that little red spot on the end of your nose. I never saw him wear but one kind of necktie, and he believes in cuff-holders and button-shoes.
As we walked along I observed that her feet were in dainty shiny button-shoes. Suddenly I began to be ashamed of my feet that were browned by the sunlight and scratched by the briers. The absent watermelon didn't seem to interest her. "Let's play house in the grove," said she, and showed me how to build a house by laying rows of stones with an opening for a door.
It seemed as though Miss Lizzie did it to be mean. Then Emmy Lou's cheeks grew hot. She put the thought quickly away that she might forget it; but the wedge was entered. Teachers were no longer infallible. Emmy Lou had questioned the motives of pedagogic deism. And so Emmy Lou and Hattie were separated. But there were three new little girls near Emmy Lou. Their kid button-shoes had tassels.
Very few little girls had button-shoes. Button-shoes were new. Emmy Lou had button-shoes. She was proud of them. But they did not have tassels. The three new little girls looked amused at everything, and exchanged glances; but they were not mean glances not the kind of glances when little girls nudge each other and go off to whisper. Emmy Lou liked the new little girls.
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