Young Francie O'Sullivan, from the Irish family we first met in The Cottage at Bantry Bay has had a successful operation in a Dublin hospital, but longs to return to his beloved family in County Cork. He heads out the hospital door, no permission asked, and finds a train--won't any train do? Francie finds himself making a speedy tour (in the opposite direction from home) around the Emerald Isle, a journey full of adventure, laughter, and endearing friendships for Francie and the reader. Ireland, 1930's RL4.4 Of read-aloud interest ages 7-up Hilda van Stockum (1908-2006), wife of E.R. Marlin and mother of six children, wrote and illustrated nearly 20 books for children between the years 1934 and 1976. Born in Holland of Dutch and Irish heritage she met her American husband in Ireland at the outset of her portrait painting career. After her marriage she put her training in art to very good use in her books for children. Her works reflect the various countries and cultures of which she has been a part. For instance, her book The Winged Watchman remains a stirring tribute to the courage of her countrymen during World War II. IN THE kitchen of the Orthopedic Hospital in Dublin the cook stirred the stew in the huge pot. She was an ample person, Mrs. Byrne, though she often wondered why. “Sorra a bit I ever eat,” she would say with a hearty laugh. “It must be the smell that fattens me!” After she had stirred the pot she sank down into a chair and folded her hands in her apron. When she shut her eyes she could imagine herself back in the kitchen of her old home in County Cork, and there was no big range beside her but a sweet, low turf fire with a kettle swinging over it. She could even smell the seawind and hear the scratch, scratch of the hens as they tripped through the doorway and wandered under the table in search of crumbs. “Please, ma’am,” piped a voice by her elbow. With a shock Mrs. Byrne opened her eyes. A little fellow with tousled blond hair looked up at her; he had a bandaged foot, so he must be one of those poor little creatures from the children’s ward. “An’ what might you be doing here?” Mrs. Byrne asked, giving the intruder a friendly glance, for she never got angry in a hurry. The boy peeped at her from under black lashes. “Please, ma’am, they sent me to ask ye could ye make us something else for dessert today? It’s sick and tired we all are of milk puddings an’ prunes an’ milk puddings an’ prunes. . . .” Mrs. Byrne raised her eyebrows. “Indeed,” she said, “ they sent ye? Who are ‘they,’ might I ask?” “Oh, Tommy Fagan an’ Chris Donaghy an’ wee Andy—all of them,” explained the boy. “An’ what was it ye had in mind, then, instead of milk puddings?” asked Mrs. Byrne. The boy appeared to think intently with the aid of a wrinkle over his stubby nose. “Me mother, she made us pies an’ cakes,” he suggested at last, hopefully. Mrs. Byrne’s heart warmed to the music of his Cork accent, and she rummaged in one of her spacious cupboards until she found a slab of fruitcake. “Will this satisfy your appetite?” she asked. But the boy shook his head. “One piece isn’t enough,” he protested loyally. “There’s fourteen of us.” Mrs. Byrne sat down and laughed. “Well,” she sighed, “I never saw the likes of you before, not in all the years I’ve been here. So one piece isn’t enough, is it?” “It is not,” said the boy firmly. “Sure, there’d be nothing left of it if we divided that. It’s a whole cake we’ll be needing every day an’ no more puddings an’ prunes!” “Anything else?” asked Mrs. Byrne. A smile tiptoed over the boy’s rosy face. “Ye couldn’t make it ice cream once in a while, could ye now?” he coaxed. “Deary me!” cried Mrs. Byrne, raising her hands at this audacious request. “What will ye be asking me for next! The hospital isn’t made of money, ye know.” The boy nodded. “Maybe we’d better offer up the ice cream, so,” he conceded. Then he looked wistfully about the kitchen. “Ye wouldn’t let me stay here awhile, would ye?” “Indeed I would,” said Mrs. Byrne. “But won’t they miss ye up in the ward?” The boy climbed onto a chair. “Arra, let them miss me for a while,” he said calmly. “Haven’t they got me ’most all the time? Sure, it’s lonesome I am for a kitchen.” “Och, God bless an’ protect ye, me lamb!” cried Mrs. Byrne, her motherly heart running over. “Is it so long since ye left home?” The boy counted it out on his fingers. “I was here Christmas, an’ Saint Patrick’s day, an’ Easter—’deed there wasn’t a bit of fun I didn’t miss!” “And your parents, don’t they visit ye?” The boy sent Mrs. Byrne a pitying glance. “An’ they over in Glengarriff,” he said. “Sure, it’s too far entirely for them to come!” “What might your name be, then?” asked Mrs. Byrne curiously. “Francie O’Sullivan.” Mrs. Byrne looked at him with fresh interest. So this was the laddie the nurses were always talking about when they came down for a sup of tea. She had heard tales of how bright he was and how he had all the other children in the ward doi