“W-r-i-g-h-t, right,” spelled the certain little girl; then burst into tears.
The mothers of the future grew demoralised. The pillars of state of English orthography at least seemed destined to totter. The spelling grew wild.
“R-i-t, right.”
“W-r-i-t, right.”
Then in the desperation of sheer hopelessness came “w-r-i-t-e, right,” again.
There were tears all along the line. At their wits’ end, the mothers, dissolving as they rose in turn, shook their heads hopelessly.
Emmy Lou stood up. She knew just where the word was in a column of three on page 14. She could see it. She looked up at Dear Teacher, quiet and pale, on the platform.
“R,” said Emmy Lou, steadily, “i-g-h-t, right.”
A long line of weeping mothers went to their seats, and Emmy Lou moved up past the middle of the bench.
The words were now more complicated. The nerves of the mothers had been shaken by this last strain. Little girls dropped out rapidly. The foot moved on up toward the head, until there came a pink spot on Dear Teacher’s either cheek. For some reason Dear Teacher’s head began to hold itself finely erect again.