by Kate Seredy
“Good for you, Mike,” Father said heartily. “Shake on it. We all are.”
“You said it, Mist’ John. Look . . . Mike have team horse, machine, you no have. Mike come for litt’ money, cut hay, fix it good for you. Nex’ time, Mike want to go Middletown, fix paper for feed and fix paper in bank, you Mist’ John take Mike in car, help ma’be fix paper good, huh?”
“You said it, Mike!” Father slapped Mike’s shoulder. “That’s the American way, huh?”
Mike beamed. “Okay. T’at what boy say all time—okay. He big man now, litt’ Mike,” he added after a pause.
“Is he with you on the farm?” Gran asked.
Mike’s beaming sun of a smile went into a temporary eclipse. “No. He big man wit’ good head. He in Wash’n’ton, tell people in book w’at good on farm. One girl, she work on machine t’at make letters, ot’er girl work in silk mill in P’ssaic. They no like farm. Linka and me alla lone.” He nodded a few times, deep in thought, then the cloud passed and he was beaming again. He jumped to his feet and headed for the door. In passing, he rubbed his hand over Dick’s head and gave Janet an extra special smile. “Nice litt’ boy, nice litt’ girl, Mist’ John. Stay on farm wit’ fat’er?” he asked, looking at Dick.
“You just bet your life I will,” Dick said, smiling back at him.
Mike beamed. He nodded to all of them and said, “Good. Tomorrow we hay if no rain. Now we go to bed, hard work tomorrow.” Once more he lighted up the kitchen with his smile and went out.
“Thank God,” Gran sighed fervently when the door closed after Mike. Father looked at her, surprised. “Why Mom, I thought he was a grand person,” he said in a disappointed voice. Gran cut in quickly: “I am thanking God that there is a country left in this crazy world, where people like Mike can find peace and security. The way he said: ‘Me, American,’ . . . it was . . . it was a hymn, a prayer, a salute to liberty . . . it was the most beautiful speech I ever heard in my life. I am going to bed,” she announced unexpectedly, “to think about all he said.”
No one detained Gran; they all went, quietly, thoughts turned inward, like people leaving a church where they have heard a sermon that touched their very hearts.
Next day it didn’t rain and Mike arrived with his team and mowing machine as soon as the dew was off the grass. From then on, for almost two weeks, he was with them daily. Not only to hay; he just adopted them. He was full of practical suggestions, his way of doing things was the way of a man who had always had to depend on himself, and himself alone. After his work was done, he spent hours with Dick, teaching him every little trick he knew about taking care of horses. He objected to sugar and extra helpings of oats. “Bad for baby horse w’en mama horse fat. She no know, you have head, you gotta know,” he told Dick. He and Dick, with Funnyface to help them, went over the pasture inch by inch to see if there were any woodchuck holes, sharp, jagged rocks or anything else around that the mares might hurt themselves on. “Old John Crawford, he no good,” one day he told Gran. “Cow hurt leg, he no care. Bad.” Gran agreed with him; she and Mike got to be the best of friends.
One day Mike heard Father say something about running water; at least for the barn. “Maybe we could get an electric line in here; then we could have a pump and save all this lugging water from the well.”
Mike laughed uproariously. “You know not’ing, Mist’ John. Spend money? No. HE made water run,” he pointed upward to the sky, “you use head litt’ bit, hand litt’ bit and it run in barn.”
“Okay, Mike,” Father said, “you show me how.”
Mike did. He ran to the tool shed and armed himself with two shovels and a pickaxe. Then he, Father, and Dick walked up the hill behind the barn and Mike led them to a shady hollow in the woods, where a spring was bubbling out from between moss covered rocks. The spot was just beyond the boundary line of the Prestons’ land. A deep ditch was running from the spring and down, out of sight on the opposite slope, toward Mike’s farm.
“See,” Mike pointed to it proudly. “It run to my barn. Mike make it, ten, ma’be tventy year. Still good, no cost money.”
“That’s all very well, Mike,” Father said, “but this spring is on your land. I couldn’t use it.”
Mike slapped him on the back. “Who say no? Mike say yes, Mist’ John. HE make water,” again referring to the creator of all things with an upraised arm, “for Mike, for cow, for Mist’ John . . . for ev’rybody. Who say: MY water? We dig, huh? Hurry-up dig now, huh?”
“Well,” Father hesitated, “if you will let me pay you . . .”
Mike’s smile had disappeared. His face was stern and he held up both hands. “Mist’ John, pliz. You pay for rain? No. You pay for sun? No. T’en, how you pay for friend?”
Father looked at him. Dick held his breath because he had never seen his father blush and he was blushing now. Then he held out his hand. “Mike, my friend, forgive me, will you? And thank you for the water. We dig, hurry-up dig now, huh?”
“Aaah, Mist’ John, now you talking! But no say t’ank you to Mike. Say t’ank you to HE. HE make water, HE make friend, in here,” Mike laid his hand on his heart. Then lines of bewilderment wrinkled themselves onto his forehead.
“Say Mist’ John, you city-man. You PAY for water in city ma’be? And for friend?”
Father was half serious, half laughing when he said: “For water, always. For friend, well, most of the time.”
Mike nodded, beaming once more. “Aaah. T’en okay Mist’ John. We forget, huh?”
Without another word he spat into his hands and drove the pickaxe into the rich, black soil. Dick looked at Father’s thoughtful face. He whispered to him: “Dad, we are . . . sort of . . . learning things, aren’t we?”
Father smiled a fleeting, understanding smile at him, but didn’t answer before he had picked up a shovel and handed one to Dick. Then he said: “You know, Dicky, I was kind of worried about this farm business, because of your education. But I am not worrying any more. We ARE learning things, all of us. The right things. And doing them too, if you’ll dig, hurry-up now!”
The digging of the ditch for gravity-fed running water was just an in-between job. Haying was still going on. Father was already an expert in mowing, but Dick had never handled a working team before, so all he could do was to help pitch and stack the hay. One day he had finished his chores around the house and ran out to the low-land, where Mike was mowing the last big field. Mike had gone around three times; Dick trailing along behind the mower, watching Mike cut beautiful, even windrows. At one turn Mike stopped the horses. He grinned at Dick, wiping his forehead. “Hot, huh, Deek? You do now, me, Mike, tired.”
Dick wanted to, but he said truthfully: “I never mowed, Mike, I don’t know how.”
Mike shrugged. “You no try, you no can do. Me, Mike, show how.”
With pounding heart and a flushed face Dick climbed onto the precarious little seat of the mower. Mike showed him how to hold the reins, tried to explain how to watch for rocks or branches and how to lift the knife-bar, but gave it up soon. “You do, you find out. No worry Deek. We make one, ma’be two bum row, we no tell Mist’ John. Come one, ma’be two good row, we run and holler: Look Mist’ John, Deek can mow more good t’an Mist’ John.” He grinned, then cupped both hands and whispered with a wink: “He make plenty bum row first day. No say not’ing Deek, he break two, ma’be t’ree knife. See you no break, huh?”
Dick winked back. “I’ll try.”
Mike walked at the head of the horses first, his hand lightly on a bridle. Soon Dick noticed that he wasn’t even touching the bridle, just making believe he was. In a little while Dick got the feel of the machine, noticed when obstructions were coming, stopped the horses in time to lift the knife-bar. The first round was nothing to brag about, but the second one was better.
Then once more around, and the fourth row lay flat and smooth. Mike nodded. “Good. Now me, Mike, go sit under tree. You mow, Deck, you can do. Get trouble, holler for Mike. No worry, easy, Deck, you
can do, Okay?”
“Okay,” Dick laughed, pride, excitement and not a little uneasiness making him feel all prickly inside. But he soon overcame the uneasiness; pride in doing a man’s job made him sing and whistle. He was completely absorbed in watching the knife-bar at one stretch, because he was coming up close to the fenceline behind the Van Keuran barn. He didn’t see Andy until he heard Andy’s voice: “Hey! What you doin’?”
Dick pulled the horses to a stop. “Mowing, of course,” he said, as if that were the most natural thing for him to do. Andy surveyed the windrows behind him with a critical eye, then this blue glance flickered up to Dick. He didn’t say anything about the job and that, from Andy, was a great compliment. Dick knew it, but he wanted to hear Andy say that it was a pretty good job. Smiling proudly, he was about to speak, when something tense and staring in Andy’s eyes stopped him. Instead, he asked: “What’s the matter, Andy?”
“Nothin’,” Andy shrugged. “Nothin’ new,” he amended, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. In the stillness, now that the racket of the machine had ceased, Dick could hear the high-pitched, angry voice that could come only from Mrs. Van Keuran. The two boys looked at each other; Dick quietly, not wanting to pry, Andy uncertainly, wanting to talk but, never having had a friend before, not quite knowing how. Finally, half turning his back on Dick, he reached into the high front of his overalls and pulled out a sheet of paper.
“Here. You . . . you liked th’ other right well. Keep it. I didn’t ‘llow her to rip it up. She whaled me good, too.” His voice was defiant; he kept his face averted while Dick took the drawing from him.
“Gee, Andy, thank you . . . ever so much,” Dick said sincerely. “It’s awfully good, Andy.” He gazed at the drawing of a string of fat, rolypoly puppies nursing their mother, then he smiled. “Do they always have so many little fat ones? Will Funnyface have this many?”
Andy shrugged, still aloof, but somehow the shrug made him face around so now he was looking over the fence. “Never can tell. Times they have two, other times a big litter. Like Spot here, she on the picture.”
Irresistibly the paper in Dick’s hand drew him, until he was craning his neck for another look at the drawing. He smiled. “Right smart, ain’t they?”
“They are lovely and . . . gee,Andy, you sure can draw!” Dick was absorbed in the picture, so was Andy.
“Hey, Deck,” came Mike’s voice and with it Mike, running across the field as fast as his short legs would carry him. His whole face was a maze of little crowfeet lines of anxiety, but when he saw Dick smiling and waving at him, relief rearranged the lines into his customary happy grin.
“Aaah. You okay, Deek. Me think you got trouble ma’be.” His eyes rested on Andy’s face for a little longer time. “Andy,” he said, “you eat litt’ green apple, ten, tventy ma’be?”
Andy shook his head. Mike’s eyes flew to the Van Keuran house and back and he asked: “She?”
Andy averted his eyes, but Mike knew. He turned to Dick: “You, Deck, you know?”
“Yes,” said Dick, a little embarrassed. If Andy didn’t want to talk about his trouble, it didn’t seem quite right to discuss it. To change the conversation, he held the drawing so Mike could see it. “Look, Mike, isn’t this good?”
Mike’s face radiated approval. “Aaah,—look, litt’ pup . . . one, two, ten ma’be. Ah, fat litt’ pup.” He beamed. “Andy, he fix good, huh?”
Dick glanced at Andy. “Does he know you can draw?” Andy grinned at Mike and Mike rocked on his heels with laughter. “Me know. Me, Mike, tell old woman she crazy. Aaah.”
Andy explained: “Mike heard Granma rantin’ at me on account of . . . well that stuff. He got real put out at her, hollered at her somethin’ awful in . . . whatever tongue he uses. Granma, she set out after him with the pitchfork, she was that roiled up. Now he don’t come near Granma no more.”
“She no know nothing,” Mike stated, frowning. “Look, Deck,” Mike was about to deliver a long speech, forehead, eyes, hands, his whole stance showing an eager effort to make himself understood. “Look Deck, you boy in city. Ma’be you know w’at Mike feel. Look. Me, Mike, stro-o-ng Mike, me farm, good. Many, many, many strong man can farm good. No head, just strong. Priest, judge, ma’be Mist’ John he think good. Good head, think good. Many, many, many do same thing. But Andy, he do somet’ing only one, two, ma’be ten can do good. Andy, he . . .” Words failed Mike, only his hands and eyes expressed what he felt. Dick supplied the words:
“You mean he is something special. An artist.”
Mike burst into uproarious, happy laughter. “You said it, Deek! He special. T’at it,—special.” Then another thought struck him and he went into his amazingly expressive pantomime again, using words as he found them. “I show you, Deck. See, w’at Andy do,—it somet’ing like good team do. One pull from here,” he pointed to his forehead, “one pull from there,” his hand went to his heart. “Only one,—no good. Two pull toget’er . . . t’at is on picture. Gotta come from head and . . .”
“Heart,” Dick helped, hoping it was the right word. It was. Mike beamed. “You got it, Deek! Good picture come from head and heart. Andy, he got good head, good heart. So.”
“Aw, you’re both foolin’ me,” Andy squirmed, but his eyes were shining. He gave Dick an embarrassed glance. “Don’t do no good anyways,” he said and his eyes looked bleak again. “I ain’t got no other place to go.”
“You can always come to our house,” Dick said impulsively. “I’m going right now to talk to Dad. He knows about pictures, so does Mother.” He made a move to jump off the mower but Mike held him there. “You tire, Deek?”
“Of course not. I just want to go and show Dad this picture. And the other one Andy gave me.”
“Show tonight. You start job, you finish job, Deek. Andy wait. Sun, it no wait. You farmer, you finish job, t’en you talk.”
Dick gulped. Mike stood looking at him; he seemed to be waiting for something. Suddenly Dick grinned. “Okay, Mike, you win. I’ll finish what I started.”
The sunshine was bright again on Mike’s face. “Okay. You make good farmer . . . ma’be. Now, me go, dig litt’ more for water. You bring team to barn, huh?” He ambled away.
Dick grinned at Andy. Andy grinned back. “Go ahead, city slicker, let’s see what you are made of.” They waved at each other and Dick went on with his mowing. By the time he came around again, Andy was gone.
Some time later, Father and Gran appeared on the edge of the fresh cut field. Dick saw them but he had no time to wave; all his attention was taken up by the ticklish job of cleaning up a corner of the plot. When he looked up again, his job done, they were gone too. For a fleeting moment he felt disappointment, then pride surged up in him when he realized that he had been trusted by Mike, by Father, and Gran, to do a man’s job alone—and silently approved of by Andy. Tired and soaking wet from perspiration, he lifted the heavy knife-bar once more and fastened it into the upright position. Then he started for home. Janet met him half way, then ran alongside of him, chattering:
“Dicky, you should have heard Mike and Father and Gran! You must be awful clever or something. Gee, you know what Gran did? She KISSED Mike and gave him half of the chocolate cake. Honest! She likes him, doesn’t she?”
“Who wouldn’t?” Dick said with deep conviction. They had arrived at their own barns and Janet asked: “Want me to bring water for the horses?”
Dick looked at her from the height of his new-gained wisdom. “No! They are hot now. We’ll water them after they’ve cooled off.”
Janet looked crestfallen, so he added: “You can help me unbuckle the harness. I’ll show you how.” The horses unharnessed, they went and got some old hay to rub them down with, then Dick allowed Janet to bring the water. They had just finished when Janet noticed someone rolling down the path from the hill behind the barn. There was no other word for it; she was as wide as she was tall and round all over. Behind her appeared Mike; both of them were beaming and their steady chat
ter could be heard all over the yard. They were heading for the house, so Dick and Janet ran to find out what was happening.