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komme.”
    “Nonsense,” barked Papa. “Frankie, you be a big boy now, and eat your supper.”
    Eloise looked up the stairs, and then back at Frank. She said, “Frankie, no …”
    He knew what “no” meant—it was an irritating word, “no.” He placed his palms on the edge of the table, both of them, and he took a deep, deep breath, preliminary to a loud, loud noise. He could feel the noise rising from his chair, even from his feet, since his feet were kicking, and as the noise came out, he pushed as hard as he could against the edge of the table, and there he went—the chair arced backward, and he saw the ceiling and the corner of the dining room, and then the back of the chair hit, and Frank rolled out to the side, away from Eloise, and ran for the stairs. Papa’s big hand caught him by the collar of his overalls and then grabbed his shoulder, and spun him around. He didn’t know where he was, the room was going so fast, though he kept his eye on the stairs the best he could, and there was Granny Mary at the top, or just her feet, he couldn’t see the rest, and then there was the floor, and he was sprawled across Papa’s knee with his pants down, and every blow included a word: “Don’t. Run. Away. From. Me. Young. Man.”
    Now Papa stood him on his feet and leaned close to his face, and there was that sharp smell again, and the heat and the redness, and the loudness, and Frank closed his eyes and screamed until Papa’s hand knocked him down and he was quiet. Everyone was quiet. Frank lay on his back, and he could just see Eloise with her mouth open at the table, and Ragnar next to her. Granny’s footsteps came closer and closer, and she sat him up. She said, “I don’t know what gets into two-year-olds. It’s like your own child has been taken away and this other being left in his place.”
    Papa said, “Put him back in his chair. He’s got some food to eat.”
    Granny stood up and then picked Frank up and carried him to his chair, which Eloise had set back in place. Frank sat quietly. They were back where they started, everyone straight and tall, no wiggling. Frank was hungry. It had never been about not being hungry. Granny Mary put his spoon in his hand. Frank used it the best he could, but he ate the sausage with his fingers. Papa didn’t seem to mind that.
    After Frank had eaten three bites, Papa said, “How’s Rosanna?”
    “Tired,” said Granny. “So tired. I wish this child would come. I do.”
    The room ceased shaking, and Frank took some breaths.
    Papa said, “He screams, but he doesn’t cry or whine. I’ll say that for him.”
    WALTER THOUGHT he probably grew too much oats, but if you were a Langdon and your mother was a Chick, then it was natural to plant oats, eat oats, feed oats, bed oat straw, and, most of all, enjoy all the stages of oat cultivation. He had talked his brother-in-law Rolf—who had taken over Opa and Oma’s farm, though the old folks were still living in the house—into planting forty acres this year, too. Rolf was twenty, but he had as much gumption as a ten-year-old, Walter thought. Rosanna had gumption for both of them.
    Walter especially liked binding and shocking the oats—the weather was hot, and grit of all kinds got into your hair and your clothes and your boots and your eyes and your nose, but a field of shocked oats was an accomplishment, and foretold a barn-load of straw and grain that would get everyone, animals and people, through the winter. Oat straw was a beautiful color—paler than gold but more useful.
    And Walter also liked the sociability of August—men and boys from all over the county came to his farm, and he went to their farms, and there was plenty to eat and to talk about. It didn’t hurt that Jake and Elsa were an admirable team of horses to be pulling the binder—patient, strong, good-looking, stylish grays. Didn’t matter who was driving them—a boy could drive them and they would do their job. No running away, like Theo