milk as before.

"All this great country," Grandma marveled some more, "and no
room for these folks. Half a million of us, some say, without a
place to go."

Dick said, "The kid in that Oklahoma car said the drought dried
up their farm and the wind blew it away. Nothing will grow in
the ground that's left."

"He's from the Dust Bowl," Grandpa assented. "Thousands of these
folks are from the Dust Bowl."

The parade of old cars limped along for two weeks, growing
thicker as it drew near the part of Arizona where the pickers had
been called for. The Beechams saw more and more signs on fences
and poles: FIVE HUNDRED PICKERS WANTED!

"They don't say how much they pay," Grandma noticed.

"Ninety cents a hundred pounds is usual this year, and a fellow
can make a bare living at that," said Daddy.

Soon the procession turned off the road, the Beechams with it.
The place was swarming with pickers.

"How much are you paying?" Daddy asked.

"Fifty cents a hundred."