Question
At the beginning of the story, Danny says, “‘I can milk cows,’ I said. ‘Grandpa always said I had a knack for it.’” What does the phrase “a knack for it” mean?
A. to give someone a compliment
B. to be naturally good at something
C. to try hard to be successful
D. to need to improve at a skill
Two days earlier, my father, a bricklayer, had tumbled off a one-story building while on the job. Two men carried him up the stairs to our tenement apartment on Prince Street. Ma sent for the doctor, who told us Da had a concussion and a broken right ankle. The doctor didn’t seem to care about Da not being able to work when he handed Ma his bill.
My older sister, Kathleen, tore a page out of my sketchbook and started scribbling numbers. Sis showed Ma what she had done.
Ma sighed. “There’s no other way, is there?”
I grabbed the paper. Sis had added up the doctor’s bill along with what we needed each week to pay the rent and buy food and milk for the baby.
“Da earned 1 dollar and 75 cents a day. That’s 10 dollars and 50 cents a week,” Sis said. “The sewing Ma does from home won’t bring in enough.”
That’s when I understood. It would take all three of us to earn what my father did.
“I’d hoped you could both stay in school until you were 15,” Ma said.
Sis put her hand on Ma’s. “I’m 14. I’ll find work as a seamstress. I don’t mind sewing in a shop.”
That wasn’t true, I knew. Sis would rather be in school figuring out arithmetic problems. She’d always talked about being a teacher.
I knew what I had to do. “Maybe I can find work as an artist,” I said.
Sis rolled her eyes. “You’re a dreamer, Danny. No one pays artists.”
“Yes they do,” I protested. “Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper hires illustrators who go around the city and sketch news events and . . .” I stopped. Sis was right. “I can milk cows,” I said. “Grandpa always said I had a knack for it. There are dairies here, aren’t there?”
“I’m sure,” Ma said, brightening. “Tomorrow I’ll ask Mr. Timm, who delivers our milk.”
The moment I set foot in the stables, I wanted to race right out.
“Have Danny go to Mr. Johnson’s dairy. It’s near his distillery on West 16th Street. He should ask for Mr. Glander,” Mr. Timm had told Ma.
I didn’t have to worry about finding it. The distillery smelled bad enough, with its chimneys spewing out black smoke. But the smell of manure led me to a large, muddy yard dotted with a few dilapidated sheds and several long narrow barns, nothing like the green pastures I’d imagined. Could this dairy really be the home of the Pure Country Milk brand we fed Bitsy?
The doors of the largest barn stood open. When I stepped inside, I almost gagged from the stench. A mix of mud and dung covered the wooden floorboards. Cows were packed into narrow stalls in two long rows. From the rear of each stall, manure seeped out in vile, black streams. There was a trough running along the front so each cow could eat.
This is awful, I thought.
Just then, I heard a rustle. A young calf stuck her head out from around her mother and stared at me with huge, curious eyes.
“Hello, little one,” I said softly. She looked out of place, like a flower poking its head up in the cracks of a sidewalk. My hand closed around the pencil in my pocket. It would be fun to try to capture her comical expression.
“What do you want here, boy?” A bulky man strode toward me.
“I—I’m here to see Mr. Glander,” I said.
“I’m Glander. Who are you?”
“Mr. Timm delivers our milk,” I began. “He said you lost your stableboy and might need another.”
“You don’t look strong enough to heft a shovel.”
“I learned to milk cows on my grandfather’s farm back in Ireland,” I said. “I can muck out stalls too.”
Mr. Glander sized me up. “All right,” he said. “You’ll do the mucking out in the barns and shovel manure into the carts. Stay out of the milk sheds. That’s where we prepare the milk for delivery. You got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll pay you 50 cents for a 10-hour day, six days a week.”
“I’m worth 65 cents a day, sir,” I declared. Sis had made me practice.
Mr. Glander glanced around. Then, maybe realizing I was the only boy to choose from, he said, “Fine, 65 cents.”
“I got a job!” I almost sang as I wove in and out of the crowds on my way home. At a flower stall, I saw bright-yellow daffodils, so fresh and sweet they made me think of the little calf. Daffodil. I’ll call her Daffodil, I thought. I was glad to know that there would be at least one friendly creature to greet me the next morning.
A. to give someone a compliment
B. to be naturally good at something
C. to try hard to be successful
D. to need to improve at a skill
Two days earlier, my father, a bricklayer, had tumbled off a one-story building while on the job. Two men carried him up the stairs to our tenement apartment on Prince Street. Ma sent for the doctor, who told us Da had a concussion and a broken right ankle. The doctor didn’t seem to care about Da not being able to work when he handed Ma his bill.
My older sister, Kathleen, tore a page out of my sketchbook and started scribbling numbers. Sis showed Ma what she had done.
Ma sighed. “There’s no other way, is there?”
I grabbed the paper. Sis had added up the doctor’s bill along with what we needed each week to pay the rent and buy food and milk for the baby.
“Da earned 1 dollar and 75 cents a day. That’s 10 dollars and 50 cents a week,” Sis said. “The sewing Ma does from home won’t bring in enough.”
That’s when I understood. It would take all three of us to earn what my father did.
“I’d hoped you could both stay in school until you were 15,” Ma said.
Sis put her hand on Ma’s. “I’m 14. I’ll find work as a seamstress. I don’t mind sewing in a shop.”
That wasn’t true, I knew. Sis would rather be in school figuring out arithmetic problems. She’d always talked about being a teacher.
I knew what I had to do. “Maybe I can find work as an artist,” I said.
Sis rolled her eyes. “You’re a dreamer, Danny. No one pays artists.”
“Yes they do,” I protested. “Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper hires illustrators who go around the city and sketch news events and . . .” I stopped. Sis was right. “I can milk cows,” I said. “Grandpa always said I had a knack for it. There are dairies here, aren’t there?”
“I’m sure,” Ma said, brightening. “Tomorrow I’ll ask Mr. Timm, who delivers our milk.”
The moment I set foot in the stables, I wanted to race right out.
“Have Danny go to Mr. Johnson’s dairy. It’s near his distillery on West 16th Street. He should ask for Mr. Glander,” Mr. Timm had told Ma.
I didn’t have to worry about finding it. The distillery smelled bad enough, with its chimneys spewing out black smoke. But the smell of manure led me to a large, muddy yard dotted with a few dilapidated sheds and several long narrow barns, nothing like the green pastures I’d imagined. Could this dairy really be the home of the Pure Country Milk brand we fed Bitsy?
The doors of the largest barn stood open. When I stepped inside, I almost gagged from the stench. A mix of mud and dung covered the wooden floorboards. Cows were packed into narrow stalls in two long rows. From the rear of each stall, manure seeped out in vile, black streams. There was a trough running along the front so each cow could eat.
This is awful, I thought.
Just then, I heard a rustle. A young calf stuck her head out from around her mother and stared at me with huge, curious eyes.
“Hello, little one,” I said softly. She looked out of place, like a flower poking its head up in the cracks of a sidewalk. My hand closed around the pencil in my pocket. It would be fun to try to capture her comical expression.
“What do you want here, boy?” A bulky man strode toward me.
“I—I’m here to see Mr. Glander,” I said.
“I’m Glander. Who are you?”
“Mr. Timm delivers our milk,” I began. “He said you lost your stableboy and might need another.”
“You don’t look strong enough to heft a shovel.”
“I learned to milk cows on my grandfather’s farm back in Ireland,” I said. “I can muck out stalls too.”
Mr. Glander sized me up. “All right,” he said. “You’ll do the mucking out in the barns and shovel manure into the carts. Stay out of the milk sheds. That’s where we prepare the milk for delivery. You got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll pay you 50 cents for a 10-hour day, six days a week.”
“I’m worth 65 cents a day, sir,” I declared. Sis had made me practice.
Mr. Glander glanced around. Then, maybe realizing I was the only boy to choose from, he said, “Fine, 65 cents.”
“I got a job!” I almost sang as I wove in and out of the crowds on my way home. At a flower stall, I saw bright-yellow daffodils, so fresh and sweet they made me think of the little calf. Daffodil. I’ll call her Daffodil, I thought. I was glad to know that there would be at least one friendly creature to greet me the next morning.
Answers
GPT-4o mini
The phrase "a knack for it" means **B. to be naturally good at something**. In the context of the story, Danny is expressing that he has a natural talent or ability for milking cows, which his grandfather recognized.