Mrs. Sardotopolis hurried along without looking into the store window. She
was carrying her baby home from the doctor's office. The doctor said,
"Hurry on. Get him home and don't buy him any ice cream on the way." Mrs.
Sardotopolis lived in a place above a candy, book and notion store at 608
South Halsted street.

It was late afternoon. Greeks, Jews, Russians, Italians, Czechs, were busy
in the street. They sat outside their stores in old chairs, hovered
protectingly over the outdoor knick-knack counters, walked lazily in
search of iced drinks or stood with their noses close together arguing.

The store windows glittered with crude colors and careless peasants'
clothes. It was at such times as this, hurrying home from a doctor's
office or a grocery store, that Mrs. Sardotopolis enjoyed herself. Her
little eyes would take in the gleaming arrays of tin pans, calico
remnants, picture books, hair combs and things like that with which the
merchants of Halsted Street fill their windows.

But this time Mrs. Sardotopolis had seven blocks to go to her home and
there was no time for looking at things. Despite the heat she had
carefully wrapped the baby in her arms in a shawl.

* * * * *

When Mrs. Sardotopolis got home there would be eight other children to
take care of. But that was a simple matter. None of them was sick. When
the eight children weren't sick they tumbled, shrieked and squealed in the
dark hallway or in the street. Anywhere. Mrs. Sardotopolis only listened
with half an ear. As long as they made noise they were healthy. So from
day to day she listened not for their noise but to hear if any of them