Two weeks ago there was a great commotion at school, because a famous writer was coming to visit us. We'd read his funny stories and poems aloud in class and liked them, because they were so funny. When Raisa Ivanovna said he was coming to visit us next Friday we all clapped and shouted, but she said,

"Be quiet, everyone! You're not in the circus. You're in school. Let's think of a good way to welcome him. Think hard. Let's see who'll come up with the best idea."

Everybody raised his hand. Everybody had a great idea. We were all shouting at once:

"We'll get him flowers."

"We'll make him an honorary Young Pioneer."

"Let's make him pin cushions."

"Let's have a class picture taken with him in the middle."

"No! Let's have a party!"

"Franks and bread and butter, and tea."

"I know! We all cheer when he comes in."

"Right! And a pop-gun salute. A hundred-and-one salvoes!"

"The door opens and we fire away!"

"It'll be better than fireworks."

"It'll be terrific!"

"Let's make him a pin cushion anyway."

"What'll he do with a pin cushion? Think he's crazy or something?"

"Nobody asked you!"

"Let's give him my cat. He weighs six kilos."

"Give your cat to somebody else."

"Nobody wants him."

"Let's give him a pin cushion."

"Tanya! Nobody wants a pin cushion!"

"We'll cheer and toss him into the air."

"What if he's heavy?"

"We'll ask the eighth grade to help."

This went on for quite some time.

"All right," Raisa Ivanovna said. "First, we'll present him with a bouquet of flowers. We'll greet him with applause. Then we'll ask him to read one of his stories. Then we'll elect him an honorary Young Pioneer, and one of you will knot a Young Pioneer tie around his neck. Then, perhaps, we'll have our picture taken together. That's about all. It'll be modest and just right. Do you agree?"

"It sounds great."

Then Petya Gorbushkin stood up and raised his hand, but Raisa Ivanovna didn't notice him, because he's so small and as roly-poly as a hedgehog. There was such a commotion that you couldn't see him at all.

So I said, "Petya Gorbushkin wants to say something, Raisa Ivanovna."

"All right, Petya. What is it?"

He opened his mouth and a sort of sing-song came out, like this:

"We-we-we." He must've been pretty excited, because he was stuttering so we all waited till he got over it.

Actually, he only stutters on very important occasions, when he's very excited. Otherwise, he speaks very clearly and loudly and is a fine fellow. Nobody can draw horses like Petya. And he always shares his lunch. We're so used to him we never make fun of the way he sometimes stutters and that's why he nearly never does, because we don't. But now he'd begun again, so we were waiting patiently, because we wanted to know what he was going to say. Sure enough, he finally said it.

"We-we-we sh-sh-sh-should a-a-ask him forhisautograph."

"Good for you! That's a great idea!" I said.

Then we settled back to wait till Friday and the writer's visit. Some of the kids were learning his poems by heart. Tanya went ahead and made an embroidered pin cushion for him anyway, but most of us were just waiting. The days rolled on, one after another, and then all of a sudden it was that very special Friday.

We were all combed and brushed and shining. We all had on clean white shirts and blouses and bright red ties. I was really amazed to see that so much cleanliness made us look beautiful. Even the girls. Somehow, though, we didn't look like ourselves. Even the classroom seemed brighter and cleaner, and there was a bouquet of flowers on the teacher's desk.

The door opened and the famous writer entered. He was very tall, but that was about all that made him look different. Otherwise, he was very ordinary-looking. Most important, he didn't look at all important. When he entered we all rose to greet him. He went over to Raisa Ivanovna's desk and she said,

"Today, children, Ivan Vladislavovich, your favorite author, has come to visit us."

We all began clapping like mad. He smiled. That made him look very kind. So we clapped still louder and began shouting. Some of the kids even began jumping up and down, and others began trying to calm them with real hefty shoves, but they didn't want to be calmed and put up a good fight. I gave Lenny a good crack on the head, and he got me right under the ribs. On the whole, it was a small-sized free-for-all.

After Raisa Ivanovna slapped her desk loudly we began cooling off some. When things became quiet at last the writer gripped the desk, leaned forward and said,

"H-h-hel-lochi-chi..."

We were stunned. What was wrong? Did he stutter? We hadn't known. It was so unexpected. No one had warned us, and so our class dunce, Tanya Puzyrkova who sat in the back row, giggled in her stupid voice. Then the writer turned pink and spoke in Tanya's direction, but all his words came out clear and normal, "I wanted to tell you, children, that when I get excited, or if I'm very touched, I begin to stutter a bit. If anyone finds this really funny he can leave. I won't feel hurt at all."

That took care of her, but good. She pouted, got all red and stared at her desk. That's when I got up and said,

"Don't pay any attention to her, Ivan Vladislavovich, because she's dope. Don't feel shy. Go ahead and stutter as much as you like. Make yourself at home."

Everybody clapped again. The writer smiled and looked still friendlier than before. Then he recited some of his poems we all liked so much and told us some funny stories. He was really good, much better than any actor, and we were laughing our heads off. It was all so interesting, because he'd made them all up himself, and here he was in person, talking to us now, and it was all for real! He was sitting in front of us and smiling. We could even touch him if we wanted to, to see if he was real, and he wouldn't get mad at us, because kind-hearted people never get mad at children. He went on telling us stories. I was so happy I could cry. This went on and on, probably for over an hour. I could've sat there listening to him till midnight, but some of the other kids started raising their hands to ask to be excused. That's when he stopped and said,

"Well, children, I believe it's time for us to close. I wish you all the best of everything and hope we'll always be friends. What d'you say?"

Naturally, we all yelled and howled. Then Masha went over to him and tied a red tie around his neck and we all yelled:

"Thank you! Thank you!"

Then one of the other girls handed him a bouquet of flowers and got up her courage and kissed him on the ear. His eyes got red and he waved his hand for silence and said, "I... I... I..."

And we understood he was very touched and very excited. So we all shut up so's to hear what he'd say. That's when Petya Gorbushkin got up. He held out a book and said, "I... I... I..." He was probably very excited, too. The writer sort of glanced at him. He was trying to calm down and tell us something, but couldn't, no matter how he tried. That's why all he could say was: "I.. I...." again.

Petya Gorbushkin was keeping up with him, saying, "I..." Then the writer got mad. "Don't mimic me. That's not nice at all," he said, turned back to us and again all he said was, "I... I...

But Petya said quickly, so's not to stutter. "I'm notmimicking-youatall." He held out the book to the writer and said in an awfully pitiful voice, "I... I... I..."

The writer looked so mad I thought he'd murder Gorbushkin.

"Why're you stuttering then? I'm the one who has a stutter, not you. So don't confuse things!" Then, for the third time, he turned back to us and said, "I... I... I..."

Then Gorbushkin rattled off in a desperate voice, "I stutter, too. Even worse than you do. I... I... I..."

I decided that if I didn't step in right then and there it might end in a fight, so I jumped up and said, "This is Gorbushkin, Ivan Vladislavovich. He's not mimicking you. He stutters, too. But he stutters on his own. It has nothing to do with you. You just happen to be stuttering together now. Actually, though, you each do your own stuttering. Gorbushkin! What'd you want to say? Calm down! Get a grip on yourself! You've got to try!"

Gorbushkin tried hard and got a grip on himself. "I... w-wanted toaskyoutoautographyourbookformeplease!"

"See how easy it is?" I said. "Good for you, Gorbushkin. That's what he wanted to say, Ivan Vladislavovich. He's a real friend and stutters independently."

Then the writer laughed and said, "All right, let's have your book."

This is what he wrote on the flyleaf:

"To independent Gorbushkin, with very best wishes."

Then he stood up and said very softly, "I... I... I... want to say that I like you all immensely!"

And he left.