Knocking on my door: Charlie Calgary is here! His clothes in tatters, upper lip bleeding. With tenderness my mother welcomes him. He looks at me knowingly, pretending to tear. Trickery! Always bluffing till they bring Something free. He's among the youngest crooks. She gives him dinner and one of my toys. "Count your blessings", she counsels me. I frown, flip Charlie the bird, get sent to my room. This is the same game he often employs. Later on, mother's in her evening gown, Charlie's gone. I sweep the porch with a broom. The day finishes. It's dark. Quite quickly the starlight shows --- walking off carelessly, save knowledge of wounding and cruel, fleeting thought --- that sadistic boy Charlie Calgary, whom my misled, well-meaning mother gave stuffed-chicken dinners, new toys that she'd bought.