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crystal Vase
By Lila Lennon
M iss dilly knew what they
said about her. She was
too old to teach . . . too set
in her ways. Hadn't she over
heard that mother last week
saying, "I just can't imagine
Miss Dilly ever being a child!"
What sentimental bosh.
Some of those mothers ought
to try handling a roomful of
second graders. Especially
with a child like Robert.
Robert evaded her, some
how, with his ready laughter,
his inattention. And, if laid
end to end, the bottles of milk
he spilled would reach clear
to the assembly room. Only
this time it wasn't milk.
She looked down again at
the shattered fragments of the
crystal vase on the floor. Re-
turning to the room after
lunch, she had found Robert
bending over them, picking
up the few flowers. Anger and
futility filled her. Her lovely
vase. It had been her mother's,
one of the few really nice
things she had left. One room
in a home that didn't belong
to you . . . people who were
not your own ... no wonder
a little thing like a crystal
vase meant so much. And
there it was, ruined forever.
"Robert! What have you
done? You've broken my
crystal vase!"
His blue eyes were fright
ened. "I didn't break it, Miss
Dilly. I was just picking up
the flowers. ..." His voice
trailed off, uncertainly.
Her voice was sharp. "I
expect the truth, Robert."
He planted his feet solidly
apart, and looked at her defi
antly. "I didn't break the
vase, Miss Dilly."
He'd say that, anyway, she
thought wearily.
She rapped on her desk
with the ruler. "Children, one
of you has broken my vase.
!
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