"
[Illustration: Lying down on the beds]
Though Grandma's rheumatism had doubled her up like a jack-knife,
she scrubbed herself with energy and soon had potatoes boiling,
pork sizzling, and tea brewing on the rickety stove. Daddy
brought Jimmie and Sally from the Center. After supper they felt
a little better.
Jimmie wouldn't tell about the Center, but from inside his blouse
he hauled a red oilcloth bag, and emptied it out on the table.
There were scissors, crayons, paste, pencil, and squares of
colored paper. And there was a note which Jimmie smoothed out
and handed to Daddy.
"From Jimmie Brown," he read, "Bethel Church, Cleveland."
"We-we were s'posed to write thank-you letters!" Jimmie burst out
miserably. "She sat us all down to a table and gave us pens and
paper."
"And what did you do, Son?" Daddy asked, smoothing the bristly
little head. "I said could I take mine home," Jimmie mumbled,
fishing a tight-folded sheet of paper from his pocket.
"I'll write it for you," Rose-Ellen offered. She sat down and
began the letter, with Jimmie telling her what he wanted to say.
"But the real honest thing to do will be to tell her you didn't
write it yourself," Grandma said pityingly.
"They have stories and games at night," Jimmie said, changing the
subject.
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