He laughed.

“There! laugh again.  I want to tell you something, Henry.  You’d be a great deal happier if you didn’t cry so much; do you know it?”

“Well, Miss Dunlee,”—­Kyzie liked extremely to be called Miss Dunlee,—­“well, Miss Dunlee, you see, the boys keep a-plaguing me.  And when they plague me I have to cry.”

“Oh, fie, don’t you do it!  If I were a little black-eyed boy about your age I’d laugh, and I’d say to those boys:  ’You needn’t try to plague me; you just can’t do it.  The more you try, the more I’ll laugh.’”

Henry’s eyes opened wide in surprise, and he laughed before he knew it.

“There! that’s the way, Henry.  If you do that they’ll stop right off.  There’s no fun in plaguing a little boy that laughs.”

Henry laughed again and threw back his shoulders.  Why, this was something new.  This wasn’t the way his mamma talked to him.  She always said, “Mamma’s boy is sick and mustn’t be plagued.”

“Another thing,” went on the little girl, pleased to see that her words had had some effect; “whatever else you may do, Henry, don’t ’run and tell,’ Do you suppose George Washington ever crept along to his teacher, rubbing his eyes this way on his jacket sleeve, and said ’Miss Dunlee—­ah, the boys have been a-making fun of me—­ah!  They called me names, they did!’”

Henry dropped his chin into his neck.

“Never mind!  You’re a good little boy, after all. You wouldn’t steal anything, would you, Henry?”

This sudden question was naturally rather startling.  He had no answer ready.

“Oh, I know you wouldn’t!  But sometimes little birds steal.  Did you hear that a magpie stole a watch the other day?”

“Yes, I heard.”

“Well, here’s some candy for you, Henry.”

The boy held out his hand eagerly, though looking rather bewildered.  Was the candy given because George Washington didn’t “run and tell”?  Or because magpies steal watches?

“Now, good night, Henry, and don’t forget what:  I’ve been saying to you.”

Henry walked on, feeling somewhat ashamed, but enjoying the candy nevertheless.  If his pretty teacher didn’t want him to tell tales, he wouldn’t do it any more.  He would act just like George Washington; and then how would the big boys feel?

He did not forget his resolve.  Next morning when Dave Blake ran out his tongue at him and Joe Rolfe said, “Got any chickens to sell?” he laughed with all his might, just to see how it would seem.  Both the boys stared; they didn’t understand it.  “Hello, Chicken Little, what’s the matter with you?”

Henry could see the eyes of his young teacher twinkling from between the slats of the window-blinds, and he spoke up with a courage quite unheard-of:—­

“Nothing’s the matter with me!”

“Hear that chicken,” cried Joe Rolfe.  “He’s beginning to crow!”

Henry felt the tears starting; but as Miss Katharine at that moment opened the blind far enough to shake her finger at him privately he thought better of it, and faltered out:—­