Corn-Farm Boy

by Lois Lenski

  “Aw—shoot!” said Dick. “Don’t call it a runt. Its name is Squeaky.”

  “Remember you’ve got the chores to do,” Mom went on. “Dad and Raymond won’t be in from the field till late tonight. Margy, you go gather the eggs.”

  Dick knew he could not keep Squeaky in the house forever. So he and Margy carried the little pig out in its box. Wilma followed.

  “I’ll do the chicken chores, Dick,” said Wilma, “if you’ll do the pig chores. Then we’ll all bring in the cows and Mom will come and help us with the milking. Margy can gather the eggs.”

  “O. K.,” said Dick. He was glad Wilma liked to help. She enjoyed outdoor work better than housework. Dick liked the pig chores, because he liked pigs better than chickens. The chore he hated most was gathering eggs.

  Dick and Margy set Squeaky’s box down in the alleyway of the hog-house. Margy brought a pan of milk. The little pig tipped it over, so she had to get some more.

  “We’ll soon be feeding Squeaky shelled corn and pig pellets,” said Dick. “Then she’ll grow fast.”

  Suddenly the boy heard some one calling.

  “Dick! Dick! Come here right away!” It was Wilma’s voice.

  “Go and see where she is, Margy,” said Dick.

  Margy ran out and soon came back.

  “Wilma’s cornered in the barn and can’t get out,” said Margy. “She told me not to come in, because the mother pig is mean. It’s too dangerous. She might take after me.”

  “Oh, heck!” cried Dick. “Now, what next?”

  Dick ran out. “You go back to the house and stay with Mom, Margy,” he called.

  Margy scuttled away.

  One glance inside the barn door showed Dick what the trouble was. Wilma had come in the barn to get chicken feed and had been cornered by an old sow and her little ones. Dick looked. It was the one he had named Lady. Wilma was hanging halfway up the hayloft ladder. She did not want to go up and she was afraid to come down. She could not get past the pig below.

  “Lady’s not supposed to be in here,” said Dick.

  “She wanted to make her nest here in the straw,” said Wilma.

  “We’ll have to move her to the hog-house,” said Dick, “and it won’t be an easy job. Wait till I get a bushel basket.”

  “Get me down!” cried Wilma. “Get me down!”

  “Give me time,” said Dick.

  The boy ran to find a basket and filled it half full of straw. It took a lot of courage to pick up the little pigs. He picked up the first two. Lady turned from the ladder and grunted at him. Dick scratched her on the back.

  “Now you get down slowly, Wilma,” he said, “and pick up the others and put them in the basket. I’ll keep rubbing Lady.”

  Wilma did as she was told.

  “Now go open the door,” said Dick. “You go out first. I’ll bring the basket and see if she’ll follow me over to the hog-house.”

  But Lady did not come. Dick set the basket down and came back with a board. Wilma brought a stick to help. Dick got behind the sow and hit her a little to keep her going. Lady refused to move, so he climbed up on a partition and prodded her with his foot. Wilma touched her lightly with her stick. These motions got her started. But she headed in the wrong direction—right toward Wilma.

  “She’s got it in for me!” cried Wilma, frightened. “She’s coming after me!”

  “Don’t act scared,” said Dick. “Hold your ground. Tap her on the nose with your stick to turn her around.”

  It was easier said than done. By careful coaxing, the boy and girl got the pig started in the direction of the hog-house. Dick ran ahead and brought the basket with the little pigs in it. The pigs were squealing, so the sow followed. Dick and Wilma kept on walking to the hog-house. Here Dick had a pen ready and the door into it stood open. He emptied the little pigs out.

  Lady made sure they were all there. She smelled them, snorted a little and lay down. Most of the little ones wandered off, but one was under the sow, so Dick kicked her over. He picked up the little one, and that made Lady mad again. She started after Dick. He jumped out of the pen and closed the gate quickly. He looked the little pig over.

  “She’s mashed it,” said Wilma, coming close.

  “No,” said Dick, “but she’s hurt its leg. It can’t walk.”

  He set it down. The little pig tumbled over in the straw. Each time he helped it get up, it fell down again.

  “It’s the left front leg,” said Dick. “I’ll put a splint on it.”

  “Oh, you can’t put a splint on a baby pig!” laughed Wilma.

  “Who says I can’t?” replied Dick.

  The boy found a piece of slat and whittled it down to the right size. He reached in his pocket for his handkerchief. He usually carried a clean one for emergencies like this. He ripped off a strip and used it to bind the pig’s leg to the slat.

  “There! That’s supposed to be a splint,” said Dick. He put the little pig back in the pen with its mother.

  “O. K., Doctor Dick!” laughed Wilma. “But I don’t think it will do much good.”

  “We’ll see,” said Dick.

  “Can I come in now?” called Margy at the door.

  “Yes, if you’ll help me with the pig chores,” said Dick. “Want to get some oats for me?”

  “Sure,” said Margy. She took a basket and ran over to the corncrib. The oats bins were overhead. When she came back her basket was half full. She set it down.

  “Look what I got!” she called.

  In the basket on top of the oats lay three baby mice.

  “They came down the chute with the oats,” said Margy.

  “They’re cute,” said Dick thoughtfully. “Wonder if I could tame them.”

  “Let’s teach them tricks!” cried Margy. She clapped her hands.

  Dick brought water to fill the water troughs. When he came back, he looked in the basket and said, “What did you do with your mice?”

  “Oh!” said Margy, with a long face. “That mean old cat, Bob-bob, came and ate them. He gobbled them down so fast I couldn’t stop him.”

  Dick looked out the door. “It’s going to rain,” he said.

  He heard the tractor in the lane. Dad was coming in. He stopped and took a good look at the little pig with the hurt leg. It was busily nursing its mother. He looked at Squeaky in the box in the alleyway. The runt was curled up in the straw, fast asleep. Dick smiled.

  When chores were done, he saw that Wilma and Mom had brought the cows in and were milking. Outside, it was raining. Dad did not get much corn planted, after all. Dad had shut off the tractor motor.

  “You come and cover up the planter,” Dad shouted to Dick. “I’ve got to go back to the field and get that fertilizer off the truck. It’ll get spoiled if it gets wet.”

  Dick pulled the canvas over the planter. He saw the tractor cushion on the tractor seat. Dad rode on a cushion to ease the jolts. He started to put it under the tractor, but decided it was too hot. He tucked it under the canvas.

  A big clap of thunder hit and down came the rain. Dick and Wilma ran for the house. They stood on the back porch and watched. They saw Dad come back down the lane in the Hudson. Raymond came in from the west forty with the old tractor and the drag. It began to hail a little.

  “I’ll take a raincoat out to Mom,” said Wilma.

  CHAPTER III

  Around in Circles

  “Can I help today?” Dick asked.

  “Do the chores first,” said Dad, “and then come out in the field.”

  It was Saturday and Dick was glad there was no school. He dashed out to the barnyard. The cattle were mooing in the feed lot and he heard the pigs squealing. He hurried as fast as he could.

  He brought a pail of water and the hogs rushed in and bumped him around. The biggest one whom he had named Mrs. Hog bumped against him and knocked him over. He jumped up quickly, only to see that the others had tipped the water over. Dick felt like kicking them, but he held his temper for he saw Mrs. Hog looki
ng at him. She looked so innocent, he had to laugh out loud. Maybe Mrs. Hog did it on purpose. Under the sow’s big ears, he thought he saw mischief.

  “I don’t mind a pig playing jokes on me,” Dick said aloud, “but don’t let it go too far, Mrs. Hog!”

  Beside the hog lot stood the corncrib, a large building with double open doors at each end and an alleyway through the center. Dick went to a small door at one side, took a shovel and scooped corn out into a metal bushel basket. He lifted it to his shoulder, carried it to the lot and dumped the corn out on top of the hogs. Mrs. Hog got the most of it.

  “There! That’ll fix you!” Dick cried, laughing.

  The hogs bounced and bumped over each other in their eagerness to get to the food.

  Chores done, Dick started for the big eighty. The biggest cornfield had eighty acres in it. Dick ran out the lane with Buster galumphing along at his heels. After the cold damp days of March and April, May seemed like spring. The phoebes were singing. Dick saw two squirrels fighting over an ear of corn. He saws crows flying overhead. The oats field was already green. The corn was coming up. Beautiful fresh green V-shaped plants marked neat even rows in the rich black soil. They made a circling pattern over the rolling hill. Dick picked up a clod of dirt and broke it in his hand. He liked the feel of it. How glad he was not to be cooped up in the house any more.

  He hurried over to the field. Dad was there and so was Uncle Henry. Saturday was a holiday at the factory in town, so Uncle Henry had come out for the day. Raymond had taken the old tractor over to the west forty. Dad had the new tractor and was cultivating the corn for the first time. Dad slowed up.

  “Dad,” yelled Dick, “can I drive for a while?”

  Dad could not hear. He stopped and Dick yelled again, “Can I drive?”

  “Let the boy drive,” said Uncle Henry. “He can’t learn any younger.”

  Dad seemed willing. At least he made no objections. Uncle Henry patted Dick on the back.

  “Of course you can drive the tractor, Dick,” he said. “You’ll be a big strong farmer one of these days. Cultivating is easy. Want me to show you how?”

  “Yes,” said Dick. “I sure do.”

  Uncle Henry took Dad’s place and Dick jumped on beside him. Dick rode standing and they started off. Dad stood by and watched. They went around the bend and lost sight of Dad.

  “Keep your eyes on the rows ahead, and follow their curve,” said Uncle Henry. “When the rows get short, you keep turning …”

  They were at the end of the field now, on a fairly steep slope. Uncle Henry began to turn. He backed and went ahead several times. Dick looked behind.

  “Uncle Henry!” he shouted. “Don’t go around in circles. You’re turning on the corn!”

  Uncle Henry scowled and started off in a new direction.

  Dick looked behind and called out again: “Uncle Henry, where are you going? You’re taking a whole row of corn out.”

  Uncle Henry looked back. He stopped the tractor.

  “Now, where am I?” he asked. He looked worried. “Gosh! I’m lost. I don’t know which way to go. Where’s your Dad?”

  “Up that way.” Dick pointed.

  “We’ll head back up there then.”

  Uncle Henry cut across several rows and after a while came back to the place where Mark Hoffman was waiting.

  “Uncle Henry got lost, Dad!” called Dick.

  Uncle Henry made it all sound like a big joke. He did not tell how much corn he had plowed out.

  “How did you like it?” asked Dad.

  “I admit it’s easier to go up and down in straight rows, Mark,” said Uncle Henry. “But still, contouring helps the crop. Water can’t wash the land away so easy. But—I’m a city man myself. I’ll leave all this hard work to you farmers.” He grinned at Dick. “It’s your turn now, boy.”

  Dick looked at Dad, who nodded. Dick was surprised. Had Dad forgotten that first tractor tumble, or was he just giving in to Uncle Henry? Dick mounted the tractor seat and Dad gave him some instructions.

  “O. K. Dick,” Dad said. “Watch out for the curves.”

  Dick started off with Dad and Uncle Henry watching. Then they went off to another part of the field. The small triangular shovels on the cultivator turned the soft black earth, destroying weeds and leaving only the young corn plants, whose leaves, like green ribbons, waved in the wind.

  Dick liked to be out in the field alone. He wished the tractor would not make so much noise, so he could hear the birds better. Dick felt happier than he had been for a long time. He began to sing and yodel and to make up songs of his own. He tried to out-shout the tractor. He saw that blackbirds and crows were following the cultivator to pick up worms. Big old Buster followed for a while, then dashed off to chase a rabbit in the oats field.

  Dick began to wish the rows were straight. It was hard to steer on the winding curves. The contour idea was all Uncle Henry’s. But Dad was right—it was much harder and took longer. You had to watch out every minute. On straight rows, you just went straight back and forth. You did not have to turn first one way, then another; on the outside of a curve, then on the inside.

  The wind began to blow. The dirt dried fast and dust blew up in the boy’s face. That made it hard for Dick to see the road ahead. He kept brushing dirt off with his sleeve. But he kept steadily on. He had to prove to the men that that first tumble meant nothing and that he could really manage a tractor. He took the turns without trouble.

  After several hours had passed, Dick began to feel tired. His legs got numb from sitting still so long. The air was chilly, not half so warm as when he started. He turned at the edge of the field and stopped the tractor. He stood up and stretched.

  He looked across the rolling fields. There were four farms in this square mile, the Heiters, the Hasses, the Rudens and the Hoffmans. Dick could see a dark grove outlined against the sky. That was the Ruden place, half a mile away. Down the road, far in the distance, he saw the Ruden tractor moving. Were they cultivating, too? He wondered if Elmer was helping his father.

  Buster came running back from the oats field. The dog had not caught his rabbit, after all. Dick jumped down, patted the dog and talked to him. But he knew he had better get going again. He did not want Uncle Henry or Dad to find him resting. He started the tractor and went chugging on.

  Dick’s legs began to hurt. Was it that old rheumatism coming back? He hoped not. He tried to keep his eyes straight ahead. The rows of corn disappeared under the tractor, one plant after another. It made him dizzy to watch them. Cultivating was not so much fun after all. You just kept on doing the same thing all day long. That was what made it tiresome.

  A flock of birds flew overhead. What kind were they? Wild ducks migrating to Canada, now that spring had come?

  Dick turned around to watch them pass over. The cultivator got away and plowed out a few hills of corn. He pulled the steering wheel quickly and got back on the curve again. He hoped Dad would not notice the missing hills. He shook his head to keep from getting dizzy. He began to feel sleepy. Was it fumes from the exhaust pipe?

  “Gosh!” said Dick aloud. “I can’t even yawn or I’ll be off the contour line!”

  He looked around again. He could not see the rows of green corn behind him. Was it because he was dizzy and sleepy? He rubbed his eyes with his sleeve. He looked again—but there was no corn. He stopped the tractor and went back. To his astonishment, he saw that he had plowed out about six rods of corn. What was the matter, anyhow? He was keeping in the rows in front, but plowing out the rows at the back. Dick shook his head. He could not figure it out.

  “I’ll go get Dad,” he said. “Maybe he’ll want to take over.”

  Leaving the tractor in the field, Dick called Buster and they walked home. Dad came back with him and so did Uncle Henry. They soon saw what was wrong. Dad did not scold at all.

  “It’s an easy mistake to make,” said Dad. “You are on the wrong two rows. When the planter plants four rows at a time, it leav
es a wider space before it plants the next four rows. You have come back on this wider space. That’s why you’ve plowed out the corn. You go on back home,” said Dad. “I’ll take over now.”

  Two men climbed the fence and came into the field. Dick waited to see who they were. They had stopped their truck at the side of the road. One man was Charlie Ruden, Elmer’s father. The other was Grandpa Shute, whose farm was on the next road south.

  “In trouble?” asked Ruden.

  “Oh no,” said Mark Hoffman. “You men know my brother-in-law, Henry Shumaker, don’t you?”

  The men nodded.

  “We saw you stalled here,” Ruden went on. “We thought maybe you didn’t know if you were coming or going.”

  Dick watched his Dad. He saw his lips tighten, but he did not say a word.

  “It sure looks funny from the road,” said Grandpa Shute, “to see a man cultivating on contour. I wonder what crazy ideas they’ll be thinking up next.”

  “Looks like a man might be drunk or something—going around in circles,” Ruden went on. “First he’s going one way, then he finds himself way over on the other side of the field. Don’t you get lost sometimes?”

  Dick knew this kind of talk would make Uncle Henry mad. He saw Dad and Uncle Henry look at each other. But they made no reply.

  “When I was young,” said Grandpa Shute, “I learned at school that the shortest distance between two points was a straight line. But now, they seem to figger that the farther you go round, the sooner you’ll get there.”

  “How do you like this contour business?” asked Ruden.

  “Fine,” said Uncle Henry. “If we hadn’t terraced this year all our corn would be down in the creek now. That was a two-and-a-half-inch rain soon after we planted.” As the men turned to go, he added, “Well—got anything else to say?”

  Charlie Ruden spoke for both. “We just don’t like that way of farming.” The men walked to the road and rode off in their truck.

  Dick did not realize how angry Dad was until he spoke. He turned to Uncle Henry and exploded.

  “You’re making me the laughing stock of the whole neighborhood, Henry Shumaker!” he shouted. “You heard what they think of me—it looks like I’m drunk! They’ll all razz me to death for my funny farming.”