So Francis trotted off to school but before he even reached the entrance
he was roughly pulled aside by the biology teacher who cornered, taped,
and bagged him.
Perhaps it should be mentioned that although Fiddleheads are quite easily
bruised, their hides are tough. They cannot be cut unless they have been
thoroughly cooked. So, despite all the curved saws, needles and many hours
of prodding Francis in various crevices, the teacher could neither find
eyes nor mouth nor nose. The teacher then pulled out his fantastic tweezers.
The fantastic tweezers worked like a charm and the teacher pinched Francis
quite cruelly for it excited him in the worst possible way.
And all the while, he kept on muttering to Francis,"You should be ashamed
of yourself. You are different. And that's never a good thing. You are an
"I'm not unique. I'm evolved."
School, he found, was fabulously dull.
By the end, Francis looked like a very ripe damson plum or a calf liver
patted dry and the teacher, thoroughly aroused, could not resist: on the
pretense of driving Francis home, he sped up then booted Francis out of
his car. The next day he taught with zest, vigor, and a fine attention to
detail, all the while playing in his head the details of the fiddlehead
rolling head over heels and disappearing into the fenny ditch.