Chicken Little looked up at him affectionately. “I suspected it, Ernest,” she answered demurely.
251The boy was going on with his own thoughts. “I’m mighty glad to get away from the ranch. I don’t believe I’m cut out for this sort of thing. Guess, maybe, I’m not democratic enough–you remember that party at Jenkins’? Well, I’ve been thinking about it a good deal since. I guess Sherm sort of set me to thinking with his fuss about the kissing games. At any rate, I’ve made up my mind I don’t intend to be like any of the boys on this creek, and I don’t propose that you shall be like any of the girls if I can help it. It isn’t that they aren’t smart enough and good enough. The people round here are mighty touchy about one person’s being just as good as another. Maybe one person is born just as good as anybody else, but, thank goodness, they don’t all stay alike. I mayn’t be any better than the Craft boys, but I know I’m a sight cleaner, and I don’t murder the king’s English quite every other word, and I know enough to be polite to a lady. And if I take the trouble to make myself decent, and they don’t, I don’t see any reason why I should be expected to pretend they’re as good as I am.”
Ernest was waxing wroth. The insistent equality of the Creek was on his nerves.
“I don’t care if people do think I’m stuck up–I’m going to try to associate with the kind of people I like. It isn’t money–it’s just nice living. If it wasn’t for people like the Captain and one or two 252others we’d forget what lady and gentleman meant. And that isn’t saying that there aren’t lots of good kind people on the Creek, too. But they’re so dead satisfied with themselves the way they are–they don’t seem to know there is any better way to live.”
Chicken Little was listening eagerly.
“I know what you mean. Lots of it’s little things. I noticed that night at the Jenkins’. Mamie’s prettier than me and the boys like her better, but I don’t want to be like her all the same.”
“I should think not, Chicken Little, and you needn’t worry. You’re nothing but a kid yet, but by the time you’re eighteen, Mamie Jenkins won’t hold a candle to you. And while I think of it, Sis, the less you see of Mamie the better. And I don’t want you playing any more kissing games–you’re too big.”
“Humph, you just said I was nothing but a kid. You’re as bad as Mother.”
Ernest was not to be diverted. “None of your dodging. I want you to promise me you won’t.”
Chicken Little considered.