Before the children could answer she had begun sketching one. She had colored chalks, and in a moment or two her brown camel was surrounded by a stretch of desert sand. Far off, a fronded palm indicated an oasis. Then she began telling them what the picture meant; she told them of the desert and the life on it, and of the old, old learning of the Arabs. The children sat spellbound.
When she had finished, Azalea took up a piece of chalk.
“Now,” she said quietly but in a tone from which there was no demurring, “we will learn our letters.”
Bud gave her one last defiant glance; then his eyes fell.
“Yes’m,” he said.
Half an hour later two more pupils came, one a red-headed boy named Dibblee Sikes, the other a girl called Paralee Panther, with astonishingly heavy eyebrows, a sullen look and only one arm. She was the only one of the pupils who really knew how to read. Moreover, she was, under all her sullenness, wild to learn more. With her heavy eyes she watched every move that Carin or Azalea made; she listened eagerly and yet as if only half understanding, to all they said.
After school was over, Azalea, more tired mentally than she ever remembered to have been in her life, walked beside this girl for a way.
“How is it that you have been taught?” asked Azalea.
The girl did not seem to understand. At least, she failed to reply.
“Who taught you your letters?” Azalea asked again.