le 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.

But picking wasn't play. The Beechams trudged back to their
shack that night, sunburned and dirty and too stiff to straighten
their backs, longing for nothing but to drop down on their beds.

"Good land of love!" Grandma scolded. "Lie down all dirty on my
clean beds? I hope I ain't raised me up a mess of pigs. You
young-ones, you fetch a pail of water from the pump, and we'll
see how clean we can get. My land, what wouldn't I give for a
bathtub and a sink! And a gas stove!"

"Peekaneeka, Gramma!" Dick reminded her, squeezing her.

"Picnic my foot! I'm too old for such goings-on."

[Illustration: Lying down on the beds]

Though Grandma's rheumatism had doubled her up like a jack-knife,
she scrubbed herself with energy and soon had potatoes boiling,
pork sizzling, and tea brewing on the rickety stove. Daddy
brought Jimmie and Sally from the Center. After supper they felt
a little better.

Jimmie wouldn't tell about the Center, but from inside his blouse
he hauled a red oilcloth bag, and emptied it out on the table.
There were scissors, crayons, paste, pencil, and squares of
colored paper. And there was a note which Jimmie smoothed out
and handed to Daddy.

"From Jimmie Brown," he read, "Bethel Church, Cleveland."

"We-we were s'posed to write thank-you letters!" Jimmie burst out
miserably. "She sat us all down to a table and gave us pens and
paper."

"And what did you do, Son?" Daddy asked, smoothing the bristly
little head. "I said could I take mine home," Jimmie