Not till he had engine trouble did the driver halt. Fortunately
the garage where he stopped had candy and pop for sale. Grandpa
had his family choose each a chocolate bar and a bottle. He
wanted to get more, for fear they would not stop for the noon
meal, but in five minutes all the supplies were sold.
Rose-Ellen tried to make her chocolate almond bar last; she
chewed every bite till it slid down her throat; and then, alas,
she was so sick that it didn't stay down.
Grandpa and Daddy talked with others about making the driver give
them rest and food; but there was nothing they could do: the
padrone, back in Philadelphia, already had their money for the
trip.
The children walked about while they waited. It was not cold,
but the dampness chilled them. It was queer country, the highway
running between swamps of black water, where gray trees stood
veiled in gray moss. Gray cabins sat every-which-way in the
clearing, heavy shutters swinging at their glassless windows.
A pale, thin girl talked to Rose-Ellen. She was Polish, and her
name was Rose, too. When Rose-Ellen asked her if she had ever
heard of such a dreadful trip, she shrugged and said she was used
to going without sleep.
Last year, in asparagus, she and her parents and two brothers
cared for twenty-two acres, and when it grew hot "dat grass,
oooop she go and we work all night for git ahead of her.
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