and ranch houses. Everything was so lushly wet that moss grew
green even on tree trunks and roofs. Like Holland, Daddy said,
it had dikes to keep the water out.

One day they stopped at a fish cannery between highway and river
and asked for work. The Reo was having to have her tires patched
twice a day, and slow leaks were blown up every time the car
stopped for gasoline. The family needed money.

Peering into the cannery, they saw men and women working in a
strong-smelling steam, cleaning and cutting up the fish that
passed them on an endless belt, making it ready for others to
pack in cans. At the feet of some of the women stood boxes with
babies in them; and other babies were slung in cloths on their
mothers' backs.

There was no work for the Beechams, and they climbed into the Reo
once more and stared down on the other side of the road, where
the foreman had told them his packers lived. Even from that
distance it was plain that this was a Chinese village, not
American at all.

"The little babies were so sweet, with their shiny black eyes.
But, my gracious, they don't get any sun or air at all!"
Rose-Ellen squeezed Sally thankfully. Even though the baby was
underweight and had violet shadows under her blue eyes, she
looked healthier than most babies they saw.

The hops were queer and interesting, unlike any other crops
Rose-Ellen had met with. The leaves were deep-lobed, shaped a