Magic

The other day while riding on the A train (I do a lot of this), the doors opened at W125th St. to a gaggle of preschoolers on some sort of field trip.  Ah.... summer camp.  The uproar poured into the train, heretofore peaceful.  I looked up from my book and was surrounded by a forest of pygmies.  A teacher stood beside me, supporting herself with one hand on the pole, the other holding the hand of a little girl.  A little boy sat smiling beside me.  The girl said angrily to the boy, "Stop saying that.  Liaw, liaw," softening the r's in her little girl speak.  The teacher gently intervened, "That's not nice. Don't call him that."  The girl defended herself, "But I know he's not magic.  He's just lying.  He's not really magic."  The teacher continued, "Stop it.  Now you're being a bully, and that's not nice."  The girl pouted.  The teacher advised, "If you don't like what he says, just ignore him."  I thought, those are words to live by.  I wondered if the girl would take it to heart, or if she would learn the hard way.  The boy switched to another seat and smiled at the two of them, seemingly unfazed by the drama.  Perhaps he knew in his heart that he really was magic.