very small he would stand, jigging up and down with excitement, at the kitchen table, his eyes just over its top, while his grandfather cleaned and repaired the broken, secondhand toys they managed to get for him. Gramp could make them work, he knew that; Gramp could make them shine and gleam, and if an old tap washer had to replace a missing truck wheel it made no difference.
Geneva tried to keep the acrid envy out of her eyes and heart in those days when she saw the train sets and fire engines and shiny toy trucks on the floors of the families she cleaned for now and then; tried to keep the bitterness out of her eyes when she took her employers' children to play on park grass where her grandson would not be allowed to set foot.
There were always plenty of books and pictures in the house. The Professor saw to that. The books the Professor brought were new, with no pages missing or defaced by crayons like the ones Geneva brought home, and David learned that if he marked them up or did not take care of them retribution would be swift. At night after Li'l Joe came home he would hold his grandson on his lap and as far as his own limited education would allow he read aloud, the light of the oil lamp, soft and yellow, mellowing the outlines of the shabby furniture. The Professor never missed a chance to pick up a book or magazine with stories about Africa, or with pictures of wild animals, and sometimes Li'l Joe would become so engrossed in the tales of Africa his voice would trail off and David would have to prod him back to reading aloud. "There's where your people comes from, son," Li'l Joe would say. "Don't you never be like some of these colored, shamed your people comes from there. Can't no white say they comes from the same part of the world as King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba. Wouldn't be surprised but what Moses and a lot of them couldn't ride in the front of the bus was they down here."
Both Gramp and Gram would bring home toy animals, some of them cloth, some of them china or pottery, all of them damaged but new and exciting to him. They joked about the damage. "See," Gram said once. "It's a three-legged dog. Reckon he got in a bad fight. That's what happens, baby, when you gets in fights."
"Gramp'll fix it."
"Can't fix this. Nope. Reckon that other dog he got messed up with runned off with his leg."
They cleaned and mended and restuffed the cloth animals. One tiger defied them, and at last they re-covered the tattered beast with bits and pieces of calico, adding green glass button eyes and drooping yellow wool whiskers. Tant' Irene was there the Sunday afternoon they finished it, and when her great-grandson shouted aloud with laughter she said, "David," and her stern face grew soft. Li'l Joe, looking at her, knew she was not speaking of her grandson but of her dead husband.
"Mane," said David. "Where's its mane?"
"Shucks, tigers don't have no manes, son."
"This one do, Gramp, this one do."
And so they made a tiger's mane for him of loops of wool of many colors, red, green, yellow, blue, and cut the loops, and Gramp gave one look and said, "Lawd! Set that pore thing down in the middle of Africa he'd be one lonesome tiger. All the other tigers'd run like five hundred minute they seen him."
To David it was the most wonderful tiger in the world, and he slept with it every night.
***
David Champlin was a shy child with those outside his immediate environment, and less aggressive than most of his playmates. The first time he ran afoul of the neighborhood bully he came sobbing to his grandfather, who withheld sympathy.
"You let that boy see you crying?" asked Gramp. "Did you?"
David shook his head, dislodging tears. He was stunned that the usual ready comfort was not there.
"Then you get on back out there. He bullies you again, you stand up to him, y'hear!"
"Jimmy—he said he was going to hit me." David was still sniffling, engulfed in self-pity.
"Ain't no law says you can't hit him
Geneva tried to keep the acrid envy out of her eyes and heart in those days when she saw the train sets and fire engines and shiny toy trucks on the floors of the families she cleaned for now and then; tried to keep the bitterness out of her eyes when she took her employers' children to play on park grass where her grandson would not be allowed to set foot.
There were always plenty of books and pictures in the house. The Professor saw to that. The books the Professor brought were new, with no pages missing or defaced by crayons like the ones Geneva brought home, and David learned that if he marked them up or did not take care of them retribution would be swift. At night after Li'l Joe came home he would hold his grandson on his lap and as far as his own limited education would allow he read aloud, the light of the oil lamp, soft and yellow, mellowing the outlines of the shabby furniture. The Professor never missed a chance to pick up a book or magazine with stories about Africa, or with pictures of wild animals, and sometimes Li'l Joe would become so engrossed in the tales of Africa his voice would trail off and David would have to prod him back to reading aloud. "There's where your people comes from, son," Li'l Joe would say. "Don't you never be like some of these colored, shamed your people comes from there. Can't no white say they comes from the same part of the world as King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba. Wouldn't be surprised but what Moses and a lot of them couldn't ride in the front of the bus was they down here."
Both Gramp and Gram would bring home toy animals, some of them cloth, some of them china or pottery, all of them damaged but new and exciting to him. They joked about the damage. "See," Gram said once. "It's a three-legged dog. Reckon he got in a bad fight. That's what happens, baby, when you gets in fights."
"Gramp'll fix it."
"Can't fix this. Nope. Reckon that other dog he got messed up with runned off with his leg."
They cleaned and mended and restuffed the cloth animals. One tiger defied them, and at last they re-covered the tattered beast with bits and pieces of calico, adding green glass button eyes and drooping yellow wool whiskers. Tant' Irene was there the Sunday afternoon they finished it, and when her great-grandson shouted aloud with laughter she said, "David," and her stern face grew soft. Li'l Joe, looking at her, knew she was not speaking of her grandson but of her dead husband.
"Mane," said David. "Where's its mane?"
"Shucks, tigers don't have no manes, son."
"This one do, Gramp, this one do."
And so they made a tiger's mane for him of loops of wool of many colors, red, green, yellow, blue, and cut the loops, and Gramp gave one look and said, "Lawd! Set that pore thing down in the middle of Africa he'd be one lonesome tiger. All the other tigers'd run like five hundred minute they seen him."
To David it was the most wonderful tiger in the world, and he slept with it every night.
***
David Champlin was a shy child with those outside his immediate environment, and less aggressive than most of his playmates. The first time he ran afoul of the neighborhood bully he came sobbing to his grandfather, who withheld sympathy.
"You let that boy see you crying?" asked Gramp. "Did you?"
David shook his head, dislodging tears. He was stunned that the usual ready comfort was not there.
"Then you get on back out there. He bullies you again, you stand up to him, y'hear!"
"Jimmy—he said he was going to hit me." David was still sniffling, engulfed in self-pity.
"Ain't no law says you can't hit him
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