wed by
some small boys who yelled in chorus:

"Judith's mad and I'm glad,
And I know what'll please her:
A bottle of wine to make her shine,
And two little niggers to squeeze her!"

They were beginning this immemorially old chant over again when Judith
turned and ran back towards them with a white, terrible face of wrath.
At the sight they scattered like scared chickens.

Judith was so angry that she was shivering all over her small body,
and she kept repeating at intervals, in a suffocated voice: "Nasty old
things! Just wait till I tell my father and mother!"

As they passed under the beech-trees, it seemed to Sylvia a physical
impossibility that only that morning they had raced and scampered
along, whirling their school-books and laughing.

They ran into the house, calling for their parents in excited voices,
and pouring out incoherent exclamations. Sylvia cried a little at
the comforting sight of her mother's face and was taken up on Mrs.
Marshall's lap and closely held. Judith never cried; she had not cried
even when she ran the sewing-machine needle through her thumb;
but when infuriated she could not talk, her stammering growing so
pronounced that she could not get out a word, and it was Sylvia who
told the facts. She was astonished to find them so few and so quickly
stated, having been under the impression that something of intense and
painful excitement had been happening every moment of the morning.

But the experience of her parents supplied the tragic background of
strange, passionate prejudice which Sylvia could not phrase, and which
gave its sinister meaning to her briefly told story: "--and so Judith
and I walked with them out to the gate, and then that little Jimmy
Cohalan yelled out, 'nigger--nigger'--_you_ know--"

Judith broke in, her nostrils distended, "And they never sassed back,
or hit anybody or anything--just crumpled up and cried!"

Sylvia was aghast with bewilderment. "Why, I thought you were on their
side!"

"Well, I _am_!" asserted Judith, beginning to stammer again. "But I
don't have to _like_ 'em any better, do I--because I get mad when
a l-l-lot of mean, n-nasty girls that have b-b-b-been s-s-spongin'
off--" She stopped, balked by her infirmity, and appealed to her
parents with a silent look of fury.

"What _shall_ we do, Mother?" asked Sylvia despairingly, looking up
into her mother's face from the comfortable shelter of her long,
strong arms. Mrs. Marshall looked do