"Teacher, it's like this: I don't know; I ain't so big like I could to know"--and, truly, God pity him! he was passing small--"it ain't for boys--it's for ladies. Over yesterday on the night comes my papa to my house, und he gives my mamma the present. Sooner she looks on it, sooner she has a awful glad; in her eyes stands tears, und she says, like that--out of Jewish--'Thanks,' un' she kisses my papa a kiss. Und my papa, _how_ he is polite! he says--out of Jewish too--'You're welcome, all right,' un' he kisses my mamma a kiss. So my mamma, she sets und looks on the present, und all the time she looks she has a glad over it. Und I didn't to have no soap, so you could to have the present." "But did your mother say I might?" "Teacher, no ma'an; she didn't say like that, und she didn't to say _not_ like that. She didn't to know. But it's for ladies, un' I didn't to have no soap. You could to look on it. It ain't for boys." And here Morris opened a hot little hand and disclosed a tightly folded pinkish paper. As Teacher read it he watched her with eager, furtive eyes, dry and bright, until hers grew suddenly moist, when his promptly followed suit. As she looked down at him, he made his moan once more: "It's for ladies, und I didn't to have no soap." "But, Morris, dear," cried Teacher unsteadily, laughing a little, and yet not far from tears, "this is ever so much nicer than soap--a thousand times better than perfume; and you're quite right, it is for ladies, and I never had one in all my life before. I am so very thankful." "You're welcome, all right. That's how my papa says; it's polite," said Morris proudly. And proudly he took his place among the very little boys, and loudly he joined in the ensuing song. For the rest of that exciting day he was a shining point of virtue in the rest of that confused class. And at three o'clock he was at Teacher's desk again, carrying on the conversation as if there had been no interruption. "Und my mamma," he said insinuatingly--"she kisses my papa a kiss." "Well?" said Teacher. "Well," said Morris, "you ain't never kissed me a kiss, und I seen how you kissed Eva Gonorowsky. I'm loving mit you too. Why don't you never kiss me a kiss?" "Perhaps," suggested Teacher mischievously, "perhaps it ain't for boys." But a glance at her "light face," with its crown of surprising combs, reassured him. "Teacher, yiss ma'an; it's for boys," he cried as he felt her arms about him, and saw that in her eyes, too, "stands tears." "It's polite you kisses me a kiss over that for ladies' present."