is known as Nizhni-Magnitogorsk.

Into a miner's home in New Pittsburgh one day an eight-year-old boy
named Grayson staggered, bleeding from the head. His eyes were swollen
almost shut.

His father lurched to his feet, knocking over a bottle. He looked
stupidly at the bottle, set it upright too late to save much of the
alcohol, and then stared fixedly at the boy. "See what you made me do,
you little bastard?" he growled, and fetched the boy a clout on his
bleeding head that sent him spinning against the wall of the hut. The
boy got up slowly and silently--there seemed to be something wrong with
his left arm--and glowered at his father.

He said nothing.

"Fighting again," the father said, in a would-be fierce voice. His eyes
fell under the peculiar fire in the boy's stare. "Damn fool--"

A woman came in from the kitchen. She was tall and thin. In a flat voice
she said to the man: "Get out of here." The man hiccupped and said:
"Your brat spilled my bottle. Gimme a dollar."

In the same flat voice: "I have to buy food."

"_I said gimme a dollar!_" The man slapped her face--it did not
change--and wrenched a small purse from the string that suspended it
around her neck. The boy suddenly was a demon, flying at his father with
fists and teeth. It lasted only a second or two. The father kicked him
into a corner where he lay, still glaring, wordless and dry-eyed. The
mother had not moved; her husband's handmark was still red on her face
when he hulked out, clutching the money bag.

Mrs. Grayson at last crouched in the corner with the eight-year-old boy.
"Little Tommy," she said softly. "My little Tommy! Did you cross the
line again?"

He was blubbering in her arms, hysterically, as she caressed him. At
last he was able to say: "I didn't cross the line, Mom. Not this time.
It was in school. They said our name was really Krasinsky. God-damn
him!" the boy shrieked. "They said his grandfather was named Krasinsky
and he moved over the line and changed his name to Grayson! God-damn
him! Doing that to us!"

"Now, darling," his mother said, caressing him. "Now, darling." His
trembling began to ebb. She said: "Let's get out the spools, Tommy. You
mustn't fall behind in school. You owe that to me, don't you, darling?"

"Yes, Mom," he said. He threw his spindly arms around her and kissed
her. "Get out the spools. We'll show him. I mean them."

* * * * *

President Folsom XXIV lay on his deat