“Sobig, you promised me you wouldn’t throw at any more birds, ever.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t hit it. I would just like to aim at it.”
Down the hot dusty country road. She was serious enough now. The cost of the funeral to be paid. The doctor’s bills. Jan’s wage. All the expenses, large and small, of the poor little farm holding. Nothing to laugh at, certainly. The boy was wiser than she.
“There’s Mrs. Pool on her porch, Mom. Rocking.”
There, indeed, was the erstwhile Widow Paarlenberg on her porch, rocking. A pleasant place to be in mid-afternoon of a hot September day. She stared at the creaking farm wagon, vegetable laden; at the boy perched on the high seat; at the sallow shabby woman who was charioteer for the whole crazy outfit, Mrs. Klaas Pool’s pink face creased in a smile. She sat forward in her chair and ceased to rock.
“Where you going this hot day, Mis’ DeJong?”
Selina sat up very straight. “To Bagdad, Mrs. Pool.”
“To—Where’s that? What for?”
“To sell my jewels, Mrs. Pool. And to see Aladdin, and Harun-al-Rashid and Ali Baba. And the Forty Thieves.”
Mrs. Pool had left her rocker and had come down the steps. The wagon creaked on past her gate. She
