Across the Fruited Plain | Page 6

first to knock together
stools and a table, and to find on a dumpheap a little old stove, which
they propped up and mended so Grandma could cook on it.
"The land's sakes," Grandma grumbled, "a hobo contraption like that!"
While they washed the breakfast dishes and straightened the one room,
the grown-ups discussed whether the children should work in the bog.
Their Italian neighbor in the next shack had said, "No can maka da
living unless da keeds dey work, too. Dey can work. My youngest, he
four year and he work good."
"Likely we could take Baby along, and Jimmie could watch her while

we pick," Grandma said dubiously. "But my fingers are all thumbs
when I've got them children on my mind.--Somebody's at the door."
A tall young girl with short yellow curls stood tapping at the open door.
Grandma looked at her approvingly, her blouse was so crisply white.
"Good morning," said the girl. "I've come from the Center, where we
have a day nursery for the little folks." She smiled down at Jimmie and
Sally. "Wouldn't you like us to take care of yours while the grown-ups
are working?" She made the older children feel grown-up by the polite
way she looked at them.
"I've heard of the Centers," Grandma said, leaning on her broom. "But I
never did get much notion what you did with the young-ones there."
"Well, all sorts of things," said the girl. "They sing and make things and
learn Bible verses. And in the afternoon they have a nap-time. It's loads
of fun for them."
"They take their lunch along?" Grandma inquired.
"Oh, no! A good hot lunch is part of the program."
"But, then, how much does it cost?"
"A nickel apiece a day."
"Come, come, young lady, that don't make sense," Grandpa objected.
"You'd lose money lickety-split."
The girl laughed. "We aren't doing it for money. We get money and
supplies from groups of women in all the different churches. The owner
of the bog helps, too. But we'll have to hurry, or your row boss will be
tooting his whistle." Her eyes were admiring children and shack as she
talked. Though not like Grandma's lost house, this camp was already
clean and orderly.
[Illustration: On the way to the Center]

So the three went to the Center, the girl carrying Sally, and Jimmie
hobbling along in sulky silence.
Jimmie had stayed so much at home that he didn't know how to behave
with strangers. Because he didn't want anyone to guess that he was
bashful, he frowned fiercely. Because he didn't want anyone to think
him "sissy," he had his wavy hair clipped till his head looked like a golf
ball. He was a queer, unhappy boy.
He was unhappier when they reached the big, bright, shabby house that
was the Center. Could it be safe to let Sally mingle with the ragged,
dirty children who were flocking in, he wondered?
His anxiety soon vanished. The babies were bathed and the bigger
children sent to rows of wash-basins. In a jiffy, clean babies lay taking
their bottles in clean baskets and clean children were dressed in clean
play-suits.
Besides the yellow-haired girl (her name was Miss Abbott, but Jimmie
never called her anything but "Her" and "She"), there were two girls
and an older woman, all busy. When clean-up time was past and the
babies asleep, the older ones had a worship service with songs and
stories.
After worship came play. Outdoors were sandpiles and swings. Indoors
were books and games. Jimmie longed for storybooks and reading class;
but how could he tell Her that he was nine years old and couldn't read?
He huddled in a corner, scowling, and turned pages as if he were
reading.
Meanwhile the rest of the family had answered the whistle of the row
boss, and were being introduced to the cranberries. Dick and
Rose-Ellen were excited and happy, for it was the first fruit they had
ever picked. Though the wet bushes gave them shower baths, the sun
soon dried them. Since the ground was deep in mud, they had gone
barefoot, on the advice of Pauline Isabel, the colored girl in a
neighboring shack. The cool mud squshed up between their toes and
plastered their legs pleasantly.

The grown folks had been given wooden hands for picking--scoops
with finger-like cleats! At first they were awkward at stripping the
branches, but soon the berries began to drop briskly into the scoops.
The children, who could get at the lower branches more easily, picked
by hand; and before noon all the Beecham fingers were sore from the
prickly stems and leaves. In the afternoon they had less trouble, for an
Italian family near by showed them how to wrap their fingers with
adhesive tape.