Most　of　the　class　might　be　considered　economically　disadvantaged；　but　still　many　would　celebrate　the　holiday　with　turkey　and　other　traditional　goodies　of　the　season。　These；　the　teacher　thought；　would　be　the　subjects　of　most　of　her　student’s　art。　And　they　were。

But　Douglas　made　a　different　kind　of　picture。　Douglas　was　a　different　kind　of　boy。　He　was　the　teacher’s　true　child　of　misery；　frail　and　unhappy。　As　other　children　played　at　recess；　Douglas　was　likely　to　stand　close　by　her　side。　One　could　only　guess　at　the　pain　Douglas　felt　behind　those　sad　eyes。

Yes；　his　picture　was　different。　When　asked　to　draw　a　picture　of　something　for　which　he　was　thankful；　he　drew　a　hand。　Nothing　else。　Just　an　empty　hand。

His　abstract　image　captured　the　imagination　of　his　peers。　Whose　hand　could　it　be？　One　child　guessed　it　was　the　hand　of　a　farmer；　because　farmers　raise　turkeys。　Another　suggested　a　police　officer；　because　the　police　protect　and　care　for　people。　And　so　the　discussion　went—until　the　teacher　almost　forgot　the　young　artist　himself。

When　the　children　had　gone　on　to　other　assignments；　she　paused　at　Douglas’　desk；　bent　down；　and　asked　him　whose　hand　it　was。　The　little　boy　looked　away　and　murmured；　“It’s　yours；　teacher。”

She　recalled　the　times　she　had　taken　his　hand　and　walked　with　him　here　and　there；　as　she　had　the　other　students。　How　often　had　she　said；　“Take　my　hand；　Douglas；　we’ll　go　outside。”　Or；　“Let　me　show　you　how　to　hold　your　pencil。”　Or；　“Le