"Good. Try it, Mr. Jackson."
The young Indian rose and began. "We, the people of the United
States—" He too was letter perfect.
After he was seated, the teacher, a gray-haired, stern-faced man, looked at the two attentively.
"Miss Dudley," he said finally, "does the preamble mean anything to you?"
Lydia's round childish eyes regarded him steadfastly. "Two of my ancestors were delegates to the first Convention," she said hesitatingly. "One of 'em lived in a log farmhouse with loop holes in it. They used to shoot Indians—" she paused and looked at Charlie Jackson, then went on. "I—I like the sound of the words."
The teacher nodded. "And you, Jackson?"
The boy scowled. "I know the words are lies as far as Indians are concerned. And I know they needn't have been if whites weren't natural hogs. Anyhow, I'm the only real American in the class."
Lydia looked up at the brown face eagerly, questioningly. Mr. James nodded. "Quite right, Jackson."
Young Hansen spoke up. "We're all Americans. What's he giving us?"
"Has your father been naturalized, Hansen?" asked the teacher.