Here we are--the screenhouse. Cranberry bogs have screenhouses the same as railroads have trains. These screenhouses, where berries are cleaned and graded and prepared for market, may be anything from a rough shed to this super structure here. This is the first one of its kind, too: a big, yet compact, brick show-place housing not only the berry equipment and the car shops, the company offices including Mr. Atwood’s own private sanctum (most admired spot in Edaville!), but brimming with storage space as well. [Illustration: (_Hosmer Photo_) Mr. Atwood’s model screenhouse, the finest in the world, built in 1940 at a cost of--well, that doesn’t matter. ] The railroad really begins here. Maybe that’s because the first rails were laid into it for car repairing. There, clustering around like chicks with Mama Hen, is the railroad station and most of the yards. [Illustration: (_Moody Photo_) No dieselization on the Edaville. Here passenger extra No. 7 sails past work train on sandpit spur. ] What a sight! Cranberry architecture and railroad artistry all mixed together under the green pine trees. See the vivid contrast--yellow sand and the bright blue sky. The red freight cars, and green passenger coaches sporting their goldleaf name of _Edaville_ along the sides. Eh? Those other names? Oh; Mr. Atwood restored these cars to their original appearance and part of his pristine program was to letter several of them as they were in the beginning. The parlor-car is _Sandy River & Rangeley Lakes_, one ancient coach is _Bridgton & Saco River_, and that other one once rolled over the old _Wiscasset & Quebec_ rails. The idea makes a hit, too. See--there are some trains scurrying about their cranberry work, while that string of shiny passenger cars at the station, headed by the impatient little homuncular engine, is waiting to take you for a ride. [Illustration: (_Moody Photo_) No. 7 hauls Mr. Atwood’s passenger train, loaded with a hundred of his guests. ] We’ll walk over. (No; that dog won’t bite.) Some station, isn’t it? Just built this Spring. Thousands of people visit Edaville every week; I guess lots of them hurry right by Plymouth Rock to come over here. That’s why Mr. Atwood decided he needed a passenger station. Yes, it’s quite a place; besides the usual station fixtures it has a real Fred Harveyish kind of restaurant, a museum, waiting-room, and social hall besides. That’s where they get together for club meetings, speeches when some speechster is here, yarn-swapping, and to look at all the interesting railroad relics and pictures on display there. There’ll be some barracks upstairs someday, where visitors may bed down for a night or two.