Julie's mother stood there, a comfortable
brown woman with shining black hair and gold earrings, the
youngest Albi enthroned on her arm. Mrs. Albi's eyebrows had
risen to the middle of her forehead, and she patted Grandma's
shoulder plumply.
[Illustration: Mrs. Albi]
"Now, now, now, now!" she comforted in a big voice. "All will be
well, praise God. Julie, she tell me. All will be well."
"How on earth can all be well?" Grandma protested. "I don't see
no prospects."
"This summer as you know," said Mrs. Albi, "we went into Jersey.
For two months we all pick the berries. Enough we earn to put-it
food into our mouth. And the keeds! They go white and skinny, and
they come home, like you see it, brown and fat." Her voice rose
and she waved the baby dramatically. "Not so good the houses, I
would not lie to you. But we make like we have the peekaneeka. By
night the cool fresh air blow on us and by day the warm fresh
air. And vegetables and fruit so cheap, so cheap."
"But what good will that do us, Mis' Albi?" Grandma asked flatly.
"It's close onto September and berries is out."
"The cranberry bog!" Mrs. Albi shouted triumphantly. "Only today
the _padrone_, he come to my people asking who will pick the
cranberry. And that Jersey air, it will bring the fat and the red
to these Jimmie's cheeks and to the _bambina_'s!" Mrs.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25