“A,” said Emmy Lou, hastily, “B, C, D, E, F, G, H,” and was going hurriedly on when Hattie, with a surreptitious jerk, stopped her.
“That is better,” said Mr. Cato, “A, B, C, D, E, F, G, A—exactly—but we are not going to call them A, B, C, D, E, F, G, A—” Mr. Cato paused impressively, his bow poised, and looked at Emmy Lou—“we are going to call them”—and Mr. Cato touched a dot—“do”—his bow went up the punctuated stairway—“re, mi, fa, sol, la, si. Now what is this?” The bow pointed itself to Emmy Lou, then described a curve, bringing it again to a dot.
“A,” said Emmy Lou. The bow rapped angrily on the board, and Mr. Cato glared.
“Do,” said Mr. Cato, “do—always do—not A, nor B, nor C, never A, nor B, nor C again—do, do,” the bow rapping angrily the while.
“Dough,” said Emmy Lou, swallowing miserably.
Mr. Cato was mollified. “Forget now it was ever A; A is do here. Always in the future remember the first letter in the scale is do. Whenever you meet it placed like this, A is do, A is do.”
“Dear Teacher, smiling at Emmy Lou just arriving
with her school-bag, went in, too.”
Emmy Lou resolved she would never forget. A is dough. How or why or wherefore did not matter. The point was, A is dough. But Emmy Lou was glad when the music man went. And then came spelling, when there was always much bobbing up and down and changing of places and tears. This time the rest might forget, but Emmy Lou would not. It came her turn.