XIV
In almost any big town, around Autumn, you will annually run across that famous agricultural show known as a County Fair; and, as Branton Hills had a big park, which you know all about, right in front of Nancy’s and Frank’s small bungalow, it was a most natural spot for holding it. And so, as this happy pair’s third Autumn got around, stirring activity in that big park also got a-going; for railings for stockyards don’t grow all built; yards and yards of brown canvas don’t just blow into a park; nor do “hot dog” and popcorn stands jump up from nothing. And Nancy, rocking on that bungalow porch, could watch all this work going on. And rocking was about all that Nancy could, or, I should say, should do, just now.
What a sight it was! Trucks; small cars; wagons; a gang with a tractor plowing up hard spots; a gang picking up rocks, grading humpy spots, and laying out ground plans. Masons building walls, and all kinds of goods arriving, by tons. But out of all that confusion and ado a canvas town will grow, strung from top to bottom with gaily flapping flags and hanging bunting, and that
[ 117 ]
