Umbertina tasted the corn that Domenico had boiled and offered her. She said to herself that she would refuse nothing this land had to offer, would taste everything out of gratitude for being there. But she did not think she would like the grano turco, which appeared strange and coarse and had to be gnawed at as a rodent would gnaw at something. It was out of politeness that she accepted the corn which Domenico pressed on her.

“Here you are, Tinuzza, this is corn, a truly American food . . . the food of the redskins. Eat it like this, spread with butter and a little salt.” He demonstrated and the others watched. “Some of your paesani won’t eat it because what they didn’t know back in Castagna, they don’t want to know here. But you’re not like that.”

Umbertina imitated Domenico and ate her first ear of corn. She was pleased. The kernels were sweet and she liked the look of these golden nuggets. It looked like America—bright and filled with golden promise.

“It is good,” she said. “I will have it in my garden.”

“Brava, Umbertina! Brava!” said Domenico, his broad face crinkled into a beaming smile. He was a handsome man with intelligent eyes and his face was always alight with some emotion or excitement—pleasure, sorrow, rage, shame, compassion, or eagerness. He wore his passions openly, not at all like the guarded mountain folk who were his paesani.

Annicharico was at the picnic and had brought loaves of his long crusty bread, which his wife was splitting, filling with large gobs of roasted peppers, and handing out. Pasquale Luppizzi, the ward boss, was there too.

“Remember,” he was telling Serafino, “in this country you vote Republican because they’re the ones who have the money and they’re the ones who give the jobs.”

“And what jobs are there?” Serafino asked.

“Look around you . . . everyone here has some work. One young Saccà is a carpenter and the other is a mason; Domenico has his own shoe store; Giovanni Muzzi peddles his own produce in season and other things in the cold seasons; his brother Sam is a mason. Others are ice cutters, gardeners, coal shovelers on the barges, or factory hands.”

“I have nothing with me, not even the pick and shovel which I sold in New York.”

“You don’t need anything to work in the cotton mills.”

“Then I’ll go there.”

“And be exploited by the American mill owners!” Domenico cut in sharply. “The mill owners who work you a twelve-hour day and pay you less than the Irish because you’re Italian.”

“Only to start,” said Serafino patiently.

“It could be your end—the workers in the mill get chest sickness,” said Domenico.

“That’s not for you, then,” said Umbertina decisively. She wished they could have their own farm.

But how many wishes I have! she thought as she looked about her at the trees, the laden berry bushes, the fields of ripe corn. First it had been enough to get out of the city slums; now she wanted a piece of land to work, and beyond that, independence for her family. How many things! Still, it all began to seem possible. And as she looked she saw a deer come from the trees at the end of the field and stand poised, head high and still. “It’s beautiful,” Umbertina said.