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Jamaica had just run out of her house to keep from crying, and she would have cried if she hadn't done it. She hated to cry. She ran to the little park and into the woods at the end of it and had almost reached the log she usually sat on when she saw someone was already sitting there. It was a boy and he was reading a book and didn't even notice when Jamaica appeared. "That's my log," she said indignantly. The boy was startled. "What?" "Your sitting on my log," she said quite forcefully. "Oh, I'm sorry," the boy said as he got up and closed his book. "You can have it. I did