l
far into the night, for the chicken-house was miserably hot at
the end of every day.

"The Garcias' and Martinezes' houses are better if they are mud
and haven't any shade," Rose-Ellen told Grandma. "The walls are
so thick that inside they're like cool caves."

She and Dick had made friends in the Mexican village with Vicente
Garcia and her brother Joe, and with Nico Martinez, next door to
the Garcias', and her brothers. Even when they all picked beans
in the morning, during the vacation from sugar beets, there were
these long, cool evenings for play.

Grandma complained. "I don't know what else to blame for Dick's
untidy ways. Hair sticking up five ways for Christmas, and
fingernails in mourning and the manners of a heathen. I'm afraid
that sore on his hand may be something catching. Those Garcias
and Martinezes of yours . . . !"

"The Garcias maybe, but not the Martinezes," Rose-Ellen objected.
"Gramma, you go to their houses sometime and see."

One evening Grandma did. Jimmie had come excitedly leading home
the quaintest of all the babies of the Mexican village, Vicente
Garcia's little sister. He had found her balancing on her
stomach on the bank of the ditch. Three years old, she was, and
slim and straight, with enormous eyes and a great tangle of
sunburned brown curls. Her dress made her quainter still, for it
was low-necked and sleeveless, and came to her tiny ankles so
that she looked like a child from an old-fashioned picture.

Grandma and Rose-Ellen and Jimmie walked home with her, and
Grandma's eyes widened at sight of the two-roomed Garcia house.
Ten people lived and slept, ate and cooked there, and it looked
as if it had never met a broom or soapsuds.

The Martinez home was different, perfectly neat, even to the
scrubbed oilcloth on the table. Afterwards Grandma said the
bottoms of the pans weren't scoured, but she couldn't feel to
blame Mrs. Martinez, with five young ones besides the new baby to
look after. When the Beechams went home, Mrs. Martinez gave them
a covered dish of _enchiladas_.

Even Grandma ate those enchiladas without hesitation, though they
were so peppery that she had to cool her mouth with frequent
swallows of water. They were made of tidily rolled _tortillas_
(Mexican corn-cakes, paper-thin), stuffed with meat and onion and
invitingly decorated with minced cheese and onion tops. They
looked, smelled and tasted delicious.

In turn, Grandma sent biscuits, baked