watery smile, forgiving her, at least for the moment, for preaching a sermon.

Ramona felt secure and happy. Agreeing

was so pleasant she wished she and her sister could agree more often. Unfortunately,

there were many things to disagree about—

whose turn it was to feed Picky-picky, the

old yellow cat, who should change the paper

under Picky-picky’s dish, whose washcloth

had been left sopping in the bathtub because someone had not wrung it out, and whose

dirty underwear had been left in whose half

of the room. Ramona always said Beezus—

Beatrice—was bossy, because she was older.

Beatrice said Ramona always got her own

12

way, because she was the baby and because she always made a fuss. For the moment all

this was forgotten.

Mrs. Quimby smiled to see her girls at

peace with one another. “Don’t worry,

Beatrice. If the boys tease you, just hold your head high and ignore them. When they see

they can’t tease you, they will stop.”

The two sisters exchanged a look of

complete understanding. They both knew

this was the sort of advice easy for adults to give but difficult for children to follow. If the boys remembered, Beezus might have to

listen to “Jesus, Beezus” for months before

they gave up.

“By the way, Ramona,” said Mrs.

Quimby, as Beatrice went off to the bath-

room to splash cold water on her face,“what

did you say to the boys in the park?”

Ramona, who had flopped back on the

couch, sat up straight. “I told them they

13

were not supposed to take the name of the Lord in vain,” she said in her most proper

Sunday School voice. “That’s what my

Sunday School teacher said.”

“Oh, I see,” said Mrs. Quimby.“And what

did they say to that?”

Ramona was chagrined because she knew

her mother was amused, and Ramona did

not like anyone to be amused when she was

serious.“Wasn’t I right? That’s what I learned in Sunday School.” She was filled with

uncertainty by her mother’s amusement, as

well as by her sister’s anger over the incident.

“Of course, you were right, dear, although

I don’t suppose a bunch of boys would pay

much attention.” Mrs. Quimby’s lips were

not smiling, but amusement lingered in her

eyes. “How did the boys answer?”

Ramona’s confidence wilted completely.

She was seeing that little girl in the park

who was not the heroine she thought she

14

was after all. “They laughed,” Ramona admitted in a small voice, feeling sorry for herself. Poor little Ramona, laughed at and

picked on. Nobody understood how she

felt. Nobody understood what it was like to

be six years old and the littlest one in the family unless you counted old Picky-picky,

and even he was ten years old.

Mrs. Quimby gave Ramona a big hug.