[Arry]

‘Well, a bear is pretty close to a dragon,’ whispered Woody, keeping a straight face on. 'And did you hear? they were living rough . . . in a camp!'

He paused to look at his lines of ‘b’s and ‘e’s. Not too bad, he decided. Though glancing up at Miz Bella’s letters on the board he could tell his ‘e’s were far too tall – they were the same height in fact as the ‘b’s. Now how to fix that . . . he extended the leg of each ‘b’ upward until he was satisfied. He cocked his head and looked at the next letter. Hmmm . . . about the same size as the ‘e’, but round with a short stem.

Hanson looked over as his brother began the row of ‘a’s. He sighed at the ease with which Woody’s chalk flew along the slate. He knew Woody would have an easy time of it . . . he was forever drawing clever little pictures on the hearth with a stick charred in the fireplace, or scrawling little scenes in the dirt with his fingers. Hanson gave a critical look at his own slate. The ‘b’s looked tired, he thought, they were leaning every which way. The ‘e’s were odd, seeming like big-headed snakes that sometimes danced on their tails and sometimes ate them altogether. Now the ‘a’s were not too bad, though he found it difficult to make all the little circles round – some of them were rather eggy looking and some of them he hadn’t quite gotten the little leg close enough to the circle. He decided he had better stick to ‘r’s. They looked like his Gammer’s little cane she used for hobbling about in her garden – a straight line with a little bent piece on top.

Woody was still working on his neat row of ‘r’s when Hanson hopped off the bench, slate in hand. Hanson figured he had practiced enough and was now trundling up to the desk to show his efforts to Miz Bella. The little boy grinned widely as he laid the slate in front of the teacher. ‘Well, I did each one ten times; same’s my fingers like Woody told me.’ He leaned in against her desk as she picked up his slate and began to look at it. His curious fingers found their way to the carving of the black bear, and he traced the lines of it. Hanson looked closely at the grey curled lady who sat perusing his letters. ‘Say, Miz Bella . . . ‘zactly how tall was this old bear that you shot?’