My robot

By O. H. LESLIE
How I wish Faw-Faw were here! What joy to be a child again, and sit once more in his strong wide lap, and rest my fevered cheek against the cool metal surface of his chest, and let my sticky, stumpy fingers play idly over the buttons of his back, and finally press down the one that brought forth his soothing, smoothing, story-telling voice:
There was once a shoe-maker who through no fault of his own had become so poor that at last he had only leather enough for one pair of shoes....
Oh, Faw-Faw! What have they done with you?
Memory, memory. So sweet, so painful. What was the rhyme that Father taught me? The rhyme that told me how Faw-Faw worked?
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MEMORY!
Calculation, conversation, robots made by
EMORY!
My father.
A big man. A brilliant man. And I was an Emory, too, and when I grew up, GREAT THINGS were expected of me. For didn't I have Faw-Faw? What child could hope for a better tutor?
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