in the Dutch oven Grandpa
had bought her. Grandma had always been proud of her biscuits.

In July the Mexican children took Dick and Rose-Ellen to the
vacation school held every summer in one of the town churches.
The Beechams were not surprised at Nico's dressed-up daintiness
when she called for them. Grandma said she was perfect, from the
ribbon bows on her shining hair to the socks that matched her
smart print dress. But it was surprising to see Vicente come
from the cluttered, dirty Garcia rooms, almost as clean and sweet
as Nico, though with nails more violently red.

The Beechams found it a problem to dress at all in their
chicken-apartment. Dick tried to get ready in one room and
Rose-Ellen in the other, and everything she wanted was in his
room and everything he wanted in hers. Their small belongings
had to be packed in boxes, and all the boxes emptied out to find
them. Clean clothes--still unironed, of course--had to be hung
up, and they could not be covered well enough so flies and
moth-millers did not speck them.

"I do admire your Mexican friends," Grandma admitted grudgingly,
"keeping so nice in such a hullabaloo."

"They are admire-able in lots of ways," Rose-Ellen answered. "I
never knew anyone I liked much better than Nico. And the
Mexicans are the very best in all the art work at the vacation
school. I think the Japanese learn quickest."

"Do folks treat 'em nice?" asked Grandma.

"In the school," Rose-Ellen told her. "But outside school they
act like even Nico had smallpox. They make me sick!"

Rose-Ellen spoke both indignantly and sorrowfully. That very day
the three girls had come out of the church together, and had
paused to look over the neat picket fence of the yard next the
church. It seemed a sweet little yard, smelling of newly cut
grass and flowers. Trees rose high above the small house, and
inside the fence were tall spires of delphinium, bluer than the
sky.

[Illustration: Looking over the fence]

"The flowers iss so pretty," said Nico.

"And on the porch behind of the vines is a chicken in a gold
cage," cried Vicente.

Rose-Ellen folded her lips over a giggle, for the chicken was a
canary.

Just then a head popped up behind a red rosebush. The lady of the
house was gathering flowers, and she held out a bunch to
Rose-Ellen.

"Don't prick yourself," she warned. "Are you the one they call
Rose-Ellen?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Rose-Ellen, burying her nose in