At last, everything was disposed of, and the padrone's agent's
big truck pulled up to their curb. Two feather beds, a trunk,
pots, pans, dishes and the Beechams were piled into the space
left by some twenty-five other people. The truck roared away,
with the neighbors shouting good-by from steps and windows.

Grandma kept her eyes straight ahead so as not to see her house
again. Grandpa shifted Jimmie around to make his lame leg more
comfortable, just as they passed the cobbler's shop with "TO LET"
in the window. Grandpa did not lift his eyes.

"I hope Mrs. Albi will sprinkle them Bronze Beauty chrysanthemums
so they won't all die off," Grandma said in a choked voice.



2: THE CRANBERRY BOG

The truck rumbled through clustering cities, green country and
white villages. All the children stared in fascination until
Jimmie grew too tired and huddled down against Grandma's knees,
whining because he ached and the sun was hot and the truck was
crowded.

Grandpa kept pointing out new things-holly trees; muskrat houses
rising in small stick-stacks from the ponds; farms that made
their own rain, with rows and rows of pipes running along six
feet in air, to shower water on the vegetables below.

It was late afternoon, and dark because of the clouds, when the