I am going to cut that grass try to cut it, I mean before I’m an hour older, said Roberta Grey, drawing on an old pair of her father’s dog-skin gloves with a do-or-die-in-the-attempt air that was at once inspiring and convincing. This whole place looks like an illustrated edition of ‘How Plants Grow’ Grey. We’ve got to cut the grass or put up a sign: To Find the House Walk Northward Through the Prairie. Signed, Sylvester Grey. Will you help, Wythie and Prue? Oswyth, the eldest daughter, a year the senior of sixteen-yearold Roberta, looked up with her pleasant smile. Help walk northward through the prairie, help find the house, or help cut the grass, Rob? she asked. Help cut the grass, and the rest won’t be necessary, laughed Rob. Come on! I’ve borrowed Aunt Azraella’s lawn-mower, though I truly believe I might as well have borrowed the cheese-scoop that grass is too old and tough to bow down to a mere lawn mower.