Such a funny, cold place the coal cellar! With potatoes banked on one corner, beetroot in an old candle box, two tubs of sauerkraut, and a twisted mass of dahlia roots—that looked as real as though they were fighting one another, thought the Child. She gathered the potatoes into her skirt, choosing big ones with few eyes because they were easier to peel, and bending over the dull heap in the silent cellar, she began to nod. “Here, you, what are you doing down there?” cried the Frau, from the top of the stairs. “The baby’s fallen off the settle, and got a bump as big as an egg over his eye. Come up here, and I’ll teach you!” “It wasn’t me—it wasn’t me!” screamed the Child, beaten from one side of the hall to the other, so that the potatoes and beetroot rolled out of her skirt. The Frau seemed to be as big as a giant, and there was a certain heaviness in all her movements that was terrifying to anyone so small. “Sit in the corner, and peel and wash the vegetables, and keep the baby quiet while I do the washing.” Whimpering she obeyed, but as to keeping the baby quiet, that was impossible. His face was hot, little beads of sweat stood all over his head, and he stiffened his body and cried. She held him on her knees, with a pan of cold water beside her for the cleaned vegetables and the “ducks’ bucket” for the peelings. “Ts—ts—ts!” she crooned, scraping and boring; “there’s going to be another soon, and you can’t both keep on crying. Why don’t you go to sleep, baby? I would, if I were you. I’ll tell you a dream. Once upon a time there was a little white road—” She shook back her head, a great lump ached in her throat and then the tears ran down her face on to the vegetables. “That’s no good,” said the Child, shaking them away. “Just stop crying until I’ve finished this, baby, and I’ll walk you up and down.” But by that time she had to peg out the washing for the Frau. A wind had sprung up. Standing on tiptoe in the yard, she almost felt she would be blown away. There was a bad smell coming from the ducks’ coop, which was half full of manure water, but away in the meadow she saw the grass blowing like little green hairs. And she remembered having heard of a child who had once played for a whole day in just such a meadow with real sausages and beer for her dinner—and not a little bit of tiredness. Who had told her that story? She could not remember, and yet it was so plain. The wet clothes flapped in her face as she pegged them; danced and jigged on the line, bulged out and twisted. She walked back to the house with lagging steps, looking longingly at the grass in the meadow. “What must I do now, please?” she said. “Make the beds and hang the baby’s mattress out of the window, then get the wagon and take him for a little walk along the road. In front of the house, mind—where I can see you. Don’t stand there, gaping! Then come in when I call you and help me cut up the salad.”