group play, clutching each other with their hot moist hands, panting and grinning into each others' faces. They were always clutching and panting and grinning, in large noisy groups, with large community smiles. They confused him; he could not tell them apart. Steven retired to a corner and turned his back, and when they clutched and panted and grinned at him he hit them.

The kiddie-garden monitor had to report of him to his unhappy parents that he was uncooperative and anti-social. He would not merge with the group, he would not acquire the proper attitudes for successful community living, he would not adjust. Most shocking of all, when the lesson about the birdsies and beesies was telecast, he not only refused to participate in the ensuing period of group experimentation, but lost color and disgraced himself by being sick in his corner. It was a painful interview. At the end of it the monitor recommended the clinic. Richard appreciated her delicacy. The clinic would be less expensive than private psychiatry, and after all, the manager of a supermarket was no millionaire.

Harriet said to Richard when they were alone, "Dickie, he isn't outgrowing it, he's getting worse! What are we going to do?" It was a special tragedy, since Harriet was unable to have any more kiddies, and if this one turned out wrong ...

Richard said firmly, "We'll take him to the clinic. They'll know what to do."

The first thing they did to Steven was to talk to him. The psychiatrist made him lie down on a foam rubber couch, kiddies' model, with the Happy Clown motif on the slip-cover, and said with a beaming face, "Now, Stevie, what seems to be the trouble?"

The boy turned his head away from the psychiatrist's shining teeth and said, "My name's not Stevie. It's Steven." He was a thin little boy, rather undersized. The baby fat had melted away fast when he began to be exposed to kiddie-garden. He had dark hair and big eyes and an uncommonly precise way of speaking for a child of five.

The psychiatrist said, "Oh, but we're going to be friends, Stevie, and friends always use nicknames, don't they? My name's William, but everybody calls me Willie. You can call me Uncle Willie."

The boy said politely, "I'd rather not, please."

The doctor was undismayed. "I want to help you. You believe that, don't you, Stevie?"

The child said, "Steven. Do I have to lie down?"

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