grew quiet.

Joe had grown quiet. Joe was the baby, a year and a half, and quite a
citizen. After several days Mrs. Sardotopolis couldn't stand Joe's quiet
any more. His skin, too, made her feel sad. His skin was hot and dry. So
she had hurried off to the doctor.

There was hardly time in her day for such an errand. Now she must get home
quickly. Mr. Sardotopolis and his three brothers would be home before it
got dark. In the kitchen in the big pot she had left three chickens
cooking.

* * * * *

A gypsy leaned out of a doorway. She was dressed in many red, blue and
yellow petticoats and waists. Beads hung from her neck and her withered
arms were alive with copper bracelets.

"Tell your fortune, missus," she called.

Mrs. Sardotopolis hurried by with no more than a look. Some day she would
let the gypsy tell her fortune. It cost only twenty-five cents. But now
there was no time. Too much to do. Her arms--heavy, tireless arms that
knew how to work for fifteen hours each day--clung to the bundle Joe made
in his shawl.

But the doctor was a fool. What harm could ice cream do? When anybody was
sick ice cream could make them well. So Mrs. Sardotopolis lifted Joe up
and turned her eyes toward an ice cream stand. She stopped. If Joe said,
"Wanna," she would buy him some. But Joe didn't seem to know what she was