he circle, and they never say anything
else. Now they're real feebs, ain't they? I leave it to you. I'm not
that kind of a feeb, thank God.

Sometimes I don't think I'm a feeb at all. I play in the band and read
music. We're all supposed to be feebs in the band except the leader.
He's crazy. We know it, but we never talk about it except amongst
ourselves. His job is politics, too, and we don't want him to lose it. I
play the drum. They can't get along without me in this institution. I
was sick once, so I know. It's a wonder the drooling ward didn't break
down while I was in hospital.

I could get out of here if I wanted to. I'm not so feeble as some might
think. But I don't let on. I have too good a time. Besides, everything
would run down if I went away. I'm afraid some time they'll find out I'm
not a feeb and send me out into the world to earn my own living. I know
the world, and I don't like it. The Home is fine enough for me.

You see how I grin sometimes. I can't help that. But I can put it on a
lot. I'm not bad, though. I look at myself in the glass. My mouth is
funny, I know that, and it lops down, and my teeth are bad. You can tell
a feeb anywhere by looking at his mouth and teeth. But that doesn't
prove I'm a feeb. It's just because I'm lucky that I look like one.

I know a lot. If I told you all I know, you'd be surprised. But when I
don't want to know, or when they want me to do something I don't want
to do, I just let my mouth lop down and laugh and make foolish noises. I
watch the foolish noises made by the low-grades, and I can fool anybody.
And I know a lot of foolish noises. Miss Kelsey called me a fool the
other day. She was very angry, and that was where I fooled her.

Miss Kelsey asked me once why I don't write a book about feebs. I was
telling her what was the matter with little Albert. He's a drooler, you
know, and I can always tell the way he twists his left eye what's the
matter with him. So I was explaining it to Miss Kelsey, and, because she
didn't know, it made her mad. But some day, mebbe, I'll write that book.
Only it's so much trouble. Besides, I'd sooner talk.

Do you know what a micro is? It's the kind with the little heads no
bigger than your fist. They're usually droolers, and they live a long
time. The hydros don't drool. They have the big heads, and they're
smarter. But they never grow up. They always die. I never look at one
without thinking he's going to die. Sometimes, when I'm