"These are my's-silent b-boys, you know," he said, as if he sensed my unspoken question.
"D-deaf m-mutes." "We have a hundred and six of them here," explained Winslow, "as a special study sponsored by the federal government."
What an incredible thing! How much less they had than other human beings.
Mentally retarded, deaf, muteand still eagerly sanding benches.
One of the boys who had been tightening a block of wood in a vise, stopped what he was doing, tapped Winslow on the arm,
and pointed to the corner where a number of finished objects were drying on display shelves.
The boy pointed to a lamp base on the second shelf, and then to himself.
It was a poor job, unsteady, the patches of wood-filler showing through, and the varnish heavy and uneven.
Winslow and the teacher praised it enthusiastically, and the boy smiled proudly and looked at me, waiting for my praise too.
"Yes," I nodded, mouthing the words exaggeratedly, "very good... very nice."
I said it because he needed it, but I felt hollow.
The boy smiled at me, and when we turned to leave he came over and touched my arm as a way of saying good-bye.
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