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Means, Florence Crannell, 1891-1980

"Across the Fruited Plain"

Looks like it's held
together with hairpins now."
Daddy drove with one ear cocked for trouble, and when anyone
spoke to him he said, "Shh! Sounds like her pistons--or maybe
it's her vacuum. Anyway, as soon as there's a good stopping
place, we'll. . . ."
But it was the tires that gave out first. Bang! Daddy's muscles
bulged as he held the lurching car steady. One of the back tires
was blown to bits. "Now can we eat?" Dick demanded. Daddy shook
his head as he jumped out to jack up the car. "Got to keep
moving. This is our last spare, and there isn't a single tire we
can count on."
Sure enough, they hadn't gone far before the familiar bumping
stopped them. That last spare was flat.
"Now," Daddy said grimly, "you may as well get lunch while I see
whether I can patch this again."
Grandma had been sitting silent, her hand twisted in Sally's
little skirt to keep her from climbing over the edge. "Well,"
she said, "you better eat before your hands get any blacker.
Dick, you haul that shoe-box from under the seat. Rose-Ellen,
fetch the crackers from the trailer. Sally, do sit still one
minute."
"Crackers?" asked Rose-Ellen, when she had scrambled back. "I
don't see a one, Gramma."
"Land's sakes, child, use your eyes for once!" Rose-Ellen
rummaged in the part that was partitioned off from Carrie.


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