For two months we all pick the berries. Enough we earn to put-it
food into our mouth. And the keeds! They go white and skinny, and
they come home, like you see it, brown and fat." Her voice rose
and she waved the baby dramatically. "Not so good the houses, I
would not lie to you. But we make like we have the peekaneeka. By
night the cool fresh air blow on us and by day the warm fresh
air. And vegetables and fruit so cheap, so cheap."

"But what good will that do us, Mis' Albi?" Grandma asked flatly.
"It's close onto September and berries is out."

"The cranberry bog!" Mrs. Albi shouted triumphantly. "Only today
the _padrone_, he come to my people asking who will pick the
cranberry. And that Jersey air, it will bring the fat and the red
to these Jimmie's cheeks and to the _bambina_'s!" Mrs. Albi wheezed
as she ran out of breath.

The Beechams stared at her. Many Italians and Americans went to
the farms to pick berries and beans. The Beechams had never
thought of doing so, since Grandpa had his cobbling and Daddy his
photograph finishing.

"Well, why shouldn't we?" Daddy fired the question into the
stillness.

"But school?" asked Rose-Ellen, who liked school.

Mrs. Albi waved a work-worn palm. "You smart, Rosie. You ketch up
all right."