along doing our work, and that was it.”

“Was she unfair?” asked Mrs. Quimby.

Beezus considered the question. “No,

but I was the kind of child she liked. You

know . . . neat and dependable.”

“I bet you never wasted paste,” said

Ramona, who was not a paste waster herself.

Too much paste was likely to spoil a piece of artwork.

“No,” admitted Beezus.“I wasn’t that type.”

Ramona persisted. “Why can’t I change to Room Two?”

Mr. Quimby took over. “Because Mrs.

Griggs is teaching you to read and do arith-

metic, and because the things she said about 145

you are fair. You do need to learn self-control and to keep your hands to yourself.

There are all kinds of teachers in the world just as there are all kinds of other people, and you must learn to get along with them.

Maybe Mrs. Griggs doesn’t understand how

you feel, but you aren’t always easy to understand. Did you ever think of that?”

“Please, Daddy,” begged Ramona.“Please

don’t make me go back to Room One.”

“Buck up, Ramona,” said Mr. Quimby.

“Show us your spunk.”

Ramona felt too exhausted to show

anyone her spunk, but for some reason her

father’s order made her feel better. If her mother had said, Poor baby, she would have

felt like crying again. Mrs. Quimby led her

from the room and, skipping her bath, helped her into bed. Before the light was turned

out, Ramona noticed that Wild Animals of Africa had been returned to her bookcase.

146

“Stay with me, Mama,” coaxed Ramona, dreading solitude, darkness, and the gorilla in the book. Mrs. Quimby turned off the

light and sat down on the bed.

“Mama?”

“Yes, Ramona?”

“Isn’t guts a bad word?”

Mrs. Quimby thought for a moment. “I

wouldn’t say it’s exactly a bad word. It isn’t the nicest word in the world, but there are

much worse words. Now go to sleep.”

Ramona wondered what could be worse

than guts.

Out in the kitchen Mr. Quimby was rat-

tling dishes and singing,“Oh, my gal, she am a spunky gal! Sing polly-wolly doodle all the day!”

Ramona always felt safe while her father

was awake. Dread of Something was worse

after he had gone to bed and the house was

dark. No need to turn herself into a paper

147

doll for a while. Crying had left Ramona tired and limp, but somehow she felt better, more at peace with herself, as if trouble and guilt had been washed away by tears. She

knew her father was singing about her, and

in spite of her troubles Ramona found com-

fort in being her father’s spunky gal. Some-

how Something seemed less frightening.

Worn out as she was by anger and tears,

Ramona faced the truth. She could no

longer go on being afraid of the dark. She

was too weary to remain frightened and

sleepless. She could no longer fear shadows

and spooks and strange little noises. She