Rose-Ellen loved to watch the water moving through the fields as
if it were alive, catching the rosy gold of sunset in its zigzag
mirrors. She missed the Eastern fireflies at night; otherwise
the evenings were a delight. Colorado sunsets covered the west
with glory, and then came quick coolness. Dry as it was, the
cottonwood leaves made a sound like refreshing rain, and the
cicadas hummed comfortably. All the Beechams stayed outside till
far into the night, for the chicken-house was miserably hot at
the end of every day.
"The Garcias' and Martinezes' houses are better if they are mud
and haven't any shade," Rose-Ellen told Grandma. "The walls are
so thick that inside they're like cool caves."
She and Dick had made friends in the Mexican village with Vicente
Garcia and her brother Joe, and with Nico Martinez, next door to
the Garcias', and her brothers. Even when they all picked beans
in the morning, during the vacation from sugar beets, there were
these long, cool evenings for play.
Grandma complained. "I don't know what else to blame for Dick's
untidy ways. Hair sticking up five ways for Christmas, and
fingernails in mourning and the manners of a heathen. I'm afraid
that sore on his hand may be something catching. Those Garcias
and Martinezes of yours .
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