Corn-Farm Boy Page 4

  “Let them think it’s funny,” said Uncle Henry, in a joking tone. “Let them laugh …”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” said Dad. “It’s me they’re laughing at, not you. I don’t know why I ever listened to you. A tenant ought to have some rights. You get your half of the corn, your two-fifths of the oats and cash rent for the pasture, even when I don’t make a penny!”

  “Now, listen, Mark,” began Uncle Henry, “you know it helps the crop—”

  “I’ve heard that before,” said Dad. “You can save your breath. Next year I’m going back to straight plowing again …”

  He jumped on the tractor, started the motor and began to move. He had to shout to be heard over the tractor’s loud roar. He hurled his angry words like weapons into the air, “Or I’ll move off to another farm!”

  Dick walked slowly back to the house. He called Buster, and the big dog bouncing heavily up and down, came behind him. Dick wished his father could own his own farm, and not rent from Uncle Henry. Every time Uncle Henry came out, it made trouble. If only Uncle Henry would stay in town where he belonged. All he cared about was making more money from the farm. The farm was nothing but cattle and hogs to him. He wanted a big corn crop, to feed the cattle and hogs—and sell them to make money.

  Dick hated to hear his father talk about moving away. They had lived on Uncle Henry’s farm since Dick was a small boy. It was home to him. He knew every stone and fence and tree and blade of grass on the place. Yet he knew his Dad was not satisfied and that bothered him. He felt tired and worried. Suddenly he realized that his legs were aching again.

  He hated to go back to the house. Mom and the girls were not there. Mrs. Loretta Haas had stopped for them and taken them to town. They would not be back until suppertime. Mom had shopping to do. Dick went in the kitchen. He saw the table covered over with a white cloth. Under the cloth was a cold dinner set out. Dad and Uncle Henry came in and ate without talking. Dick gulped down his portion and lolled on the porch couch. He watched the men go back to the field.

  Dick was still thinking about the quarrel. His thoughts were like contouring cultivating—they kept going around in circles. But they were interrupted by Buster’s barking. Dick looked up just in time to see a large cow go leaping over the fence. Buster was after her. It was Clover, the new cow Dad had bought at the sale the week before. She did not feel contented yet. She wanted to go back to her former home. It looked as if she were on her way! If somebody did not stop her, she’d be out in the road soon!

  Dick ran after the cow and soon caught up with her. He patted her and spoke to her. “What are you doing out here, old girl?” he asked. “You’d better stay in the cow lot. You’ll like it here, after you get used to us.”

  Clover acted excited, so Dick drove her into the barn. When he got her there, he saw what the trouble was. She had cut her milk bag in jumping the barbed-wire fence. He knew she was in pain, for she refused to stand still. What should he do? Dick was supposed to take care of things when Dad and Raymond were not there. He knew what Dad would do—call the veterinarian to come and take a look at that cut. Dick did not hesitate. He went to the telephone and put in the call.

  It seemed a long time to wait for the veterinarian to come. When the car drove in, Dick saw a young man get out. It was the old Vet’s son. Dick did not know him very well. He had heard that Doc Musfelt intended to retire soon, and that his son, just out of college, was taking over his practice. Dick took Doctor Emil in the barn. He told him what the trouble was.

  Clover was lying down and seemed quieter now. The young veterinarian gave her a kick. “Get up!” he said. After several kicks, the cow got up. She began to move restlessly.

  “You see?” said Dick. “She got cut on the barbed wire …”

  “You don’t need to tell me,” said Doctor Emil. “I can see for myself. That cut’s not bad. It’ll heal in a day or two.” The cow lay down and the veterinarian kicked her again.

  “Stop kicking her!” said Dick.

  The young man stared at the boy.

  “The next time you let your Dad phone for the veterinarian,” he said. “We haven’t got time to get up and run each time a kid calls on the phone or each time a cow jumps a fence.” He turned to go.

  “You’re not leaving?” gasped Dick. “You won’t do anything?” He followed out the door at the man’s heels.

  “There’s nothing to be done,” said Doctor Emil.

  “She’s got a deep cut in her milk bag,” insisted Dick. “I looked. You didn’t even examine her.”

  The man jumped in his car and started the motor.

  “Tell your father this call will cost him $5.00,” Doctor Emil said. “There’s a farmer over near here who lost twenty pigs last night. I’ve got to go see him.”

  After he was gone, Dick felt stunned. What should he do? He knew Clover needed attention and promptly. She was a valuable cow and if infection set in, they might lose her. There was no one there to help her but Dick. There was no one to help him decide what to do.

  He remembered last summer—the time the hogs were vaccinated for cholera. He remembered the old Vet and how he, Dick, had helped him. The old Vet would not kick a cow to make her get up. He made up his mind what to do. He ran to the telephone and looked up the old Vet’s house telephone number. He called and talked to Doc Musfelt himself. Just the sound of the old Vet’s voice on the phone made the boy feel calm.

  “I ’spect Emil was in a big rush to get over to see Ruden’s hogs,” said the old man. “I’ll come right out. I’d like a little drive in the country. Yes, I’ll bring my satchel along. I’ll take care of it now—you stop worrying.”

  When Doc Musfelt got out of the car, Dick took him to the barn at once. Doc never once kicked Clover. He bumped her a little and gave her a shove. The feel of his hands quieted the cow. He examined the cut and helped Dick put the cow’s head in the stanchion and chain her.

  “That one cut is pretty bad,” he said. “It goes in about to the milk canal. The other one is slight. She’s a big old cow. Surprising she can jump fences.”

  “You gonna do something, Doc?” asked Dick.

  “Sure,” said the old Vet. “Sew her up.”

  “Can I help you, Doc?” asked Dick.

  “You sure can, son.”

  Doc Musfelt opened his satchel, which held a small tray. He set his equipment out. He had needles, small knives, scissors, string, salve, and little bottles of disinfectant.

  “You squat down here beside me, son,” he said, “and hold this tray. When I ask for something, you hand it to me. This way, you can see how it’s done.” He set to work.

  “You won’t hurt her, will you, Doc?” asked Dick.

  “No,” said the old Vet. “I’ll put a numbing fluid into her milk bag and she won’t feel a thing.” He inserted a hypodermic needle. “We’ll wait a few minutes now.”

  “Doc,” asked Dick, “do you think an animal can understand what you say to it?”

  “What do you mean, son?”

  “I mean—if you say ‘Get up!’ to a cow and she don’t get up, do you think you ought to start right in beating her?”

  “No,” said the old Vet. “Never beat an animal.”

  “If a cow is lying down and you just holler ‘Get up!’ at her, I don’t believe she would get up,” said Dick, “because I don’t think she understands what your words mean. Now a dog would be different. A dog is kind of understanding if he knows you real good and has been around you a long time. I think a dog can understand the words you say.”

  “Yes,” said the old Vet. “A dog can understand more than a cow. Some dogs can even think. With a cow, you just rub ’em and pat ’em and talk to ’em, and they seem to like the touch of your hands.”

  “You don’t have to lose your temper,” Dick went on, “and beat ’em up because they don’t obey your command. You don’t have to take a board and beat them. They can feel pain like anything!”

  “Hand me the scissors now,” said
the old Vet.

  Dick watched him sew up the cut. It was quiet in the barn now except for the fluttering and chirping of a few sparrows up in the rafters. Clover never even flinched. She stood still through the whole proceeding.

  “She stood nice and quiet, didn’t she?” said Dick.

  “Yes,” said Doc. “She knew we were helping her.”

  “I like animals,” said Dick, “and I like to help them. They know when you are helping them, don’t they?”

  “Indeed they do,” said the old Vet. His eyes twinkled as he looked down at the boy, so serious and earnest.

  “Sometimes you have to be kind of brutal,” Dick went on, “but when it helps them, I feel I am doing the right thing.”

  “A good farmer takes care of his animals,” said the old Vet.

  Doc Musfelt picked up his satchel and Dick walked to the car with him. He patted the boy on the shoulder and said, “Maybe you’ll be a veterinarian like me some day.”

  Dick smiled. “I’d like to be one—as good as you, Doc. Thank you for coming out. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”

  “None at all,” said Doc.

  “What will it cost?” asked Dick. If there were two fees to pay, Dad would make a fuss.

  “Nothing at all,” said Doc. “I just came for the ride.”

  He waved his hand and was gone. Dick felt relieved and comforted inside. When the family came back, they all went out to see Clover. Dad said Dick had done the right thing. Even Uncle Henry praised him for acting promptly. That night Uncle Henry stayed for supper and Mom had banana pie for a treat. Dad did not eat his, so Dick slipped his empty plate over and ate Dad’s piece, too. Dad seldom ate pie, so he did not say anything.

  The boy was tired now. Right after supper he went to bed. That night Dick could not sleep. The next morning he had fever and stayed in bed. A slight touch of flu made his rheumatism worse. His knee and elbow joints were swollen. His arms and legs ached and he could get no rest. The doctor came and said he did not like the sound of his heart. He advised bed, no school, and after he got up—crutches for a while.

  “He should never have done that cultivating,” said Mom.

  “Uncle Henry insisted he couldn’t learn any younger,” said Dad. “I didn’t want him to do it.”

  “There’s one thing certain,” said Mom. “Dick is not to drive the tractor again!” Dad agreed with her.

  Not even the old one? Not even the old one.

  Not to drive the tractors! It was like a death sentence. Dick raged when he heard it. How could he stay off the tractor for a whole summer? Life on the farm after school was out, would be unbearable. Two tractors and not allowed to drive! Dick could not imagine a worse fate. It made him more restless and discontented. He got tired of staying in bed. He fussed and complained. He hated crutches. After he was sick last winter, he had used them for a while. But now he was determined—never again.

  One evening, Dick got out of bed and stood looking out of the upstairs window. Dad had been gone all day over to the Ludwigs, helping with the haying. Dick watched and waited until Dad drove in. He saw Margy run out to meet him. He saw Dad put a bundle in the little girl’s arms and he watched her hurry toward the back door. He heard Margy ask Mom for an empty box. He heard Raymond and Wilma exclaiming over something. When Dad came in, he heard the word “surprise.” He wondered what they were all up to, but he felt too tired to care. He was about to slip back into bed again, when Mom came to the bottom of the stairs and called, “Dick! Oh Dick! Come on down for a little while.”

  “Is it O. K., Dad?” called Dick.

  “Sure,” said Dad. “Come on down. We’ve got a surprise for you.”

  A surprise? What could it be?

  “I bet I know,” said Dick. “A bag of popcorn.”

  Dick slipped his dungarees on over his pajamas and came downstairs. Mom handed him his crutches and he took them. The family were all sitting around expectantly. Dad was in his usual big chair, with the newspaper propped up in front of him.

  “Where’s the surprise?” asked Dick. “It’s not my birthday. I don’t see any surprise. Did you bring some popcorn?”

  Margy could not keep the secret any longer. She tiptoed over and pointed her finger behind the newspaper which Dad pretended to be reading.

  “There it is!” she cried.

  Dad put down his paper and Dick stared open-eyed. On Dad’s lap lay a little rat terrier puppy, curled up fast asleep.

  “A little puppy! For you!” cried Margy.

  The puppy was white except for his face, which was brown with a white stripe down his nose. He had a short stubby tail.

  “Popcorn!” exclaimed Dick. “He’s brown and white like popcorn. I’ll name him Popcorn. Where did you get him, Dad?” Dick held the soft little ball in his arms now. He patted him and the puppy opened his eyes, looked up at him and sniffed.

  “Over at Ludwigs,” said Dad. “Martin wanted to pay me for helping him and I told him I’d rather trade work. So he said, ‘I’ll give you a puppy then—for the kids.’”

  Dick looked at Wilma and Raymond and Margy. “Don’t you other kids want him?”

  They all shook their heads. “He’s yours,” they said.

  Dick looked at Mom. “Can I keep him … upstairs?”

  Mom nodded and Margy helped Dick put him to bed in the empty box, where she had made a nest of soft cloths.

  “Popcorn is a nice surprise,” said Dick, his eyes shining. “Thanks a lot.”

  He went upstairs with the box. Mom looked at Dad.

  “That’s better than medicine,” she said.

  CHAPTER IV

  Doctor Dick

  While Dick was getting better, the little dog Popcorn was always with him. He slept in the box in the boy’s room and ate on the rug beside his bed. The puppy quickly learned to run up and down the steep stairs. He became a good watchdog. Whenever he heard someone come in the lane, he ran downstairs and barked. All the children loved him.

  “You can’t have him all for yourself,” said Wilma one day. “We all want a part of him.”

  “What part?” asked Dick.

  “I’ll take his two ears and his head,” said Wilma.

  “I’ll take his tail,” said Raymond.

  “I want his four legs,” said Margy.

  “I’ll take what’s left—his whole body,” said Dick. He hugged the puppy in his arms. “So Popcorn’s my dog, after all.”

  Sometimes the children nicknamed him.

  “I’ll call him Trixie,” said Wilma.

  “I’ll call him Butch,” said Raymond.

  “I’ll call him Sassy Brat,” said Margy.

  “And I’ll call him Stubby Tail,” said Dick.

  As the days went on, little Popcorn’s list of nicknames grew longer and longer. Sometimes he was Jiggers or Bud or PeeWee or Hot Dog or Shicklegruber or Pie Face. But it did not matter to Popcorn. He answered to them all and was the friend of everybody.

  For the first week he was the center of attention. Then Raymond brought a young wild rabbit in from the field. He gave it to Dick for a pet.

  Margy patted the rabbit. “I think he got lost from his mother,” she said, “because he is almost skin and bones.”

  “We’ll feed him,” said Dick, “and name him Peter.”

  Popcorn was moved to the sun porch downstairs and Peter slept in the box in Dick’s room. Dick fed him milk with an eye-dropper first. Soon he was able to nibble carrot tops. By the time Dick left his bed and came downstairs, the pet rabbit had the run of the house. He ate celery, lettuce, Cheerios and bread. Later Dick tried feeding him corn and oats, and rabbit pellets from the feed store.

  School was out now. It was June and Dick went for short walks on his crutches in the warm sunshine daily. He always took Popcorn with him. Popcorn barked at the geese in the barnyard and pestered them until they took after him. The dog ran to Dick for help. Dick talked to the geese. “You’ll have to make friends with Popcorn,” he said.

 
Dick rigged up a hoop and taught the dog how to jump through it. Margy jumped through and the dog followed her. The children played circus. They all tried to keep Dick cheered up, but it was not easy. On many days he sat in the house and moped.

  “Why don’t you go outside in the sunshine?” asked Mom.

  Dick shook his head. “Nothing to do out there,” he said. “I can’t drive a tractor or even ride on one. How can I help with the windrowing or the combining? A guy’s got to be able to drive a tractor if he lives on a farm.”

  Mom did not argue. She knew how the boy felt and she was sorry for him. “Will you take some lunch out to the men?” she asked.

  “Aw—let Margy do that,” said Dick. “That’s little kids’ work.”

  “Margy’s out with the big girls,” said Mom. “I don’t know just where they have gone.”

  “What do those girls have to come over here for?” asked Dick. “That silly Donna Ruden and that prissy Rita Hass.”

  “They’ve come to spend the night with Wilma,” said Mom.

  “To spend the night?” shouted Dick. “First they come to spend the day. Do they have to spend the night, too?”

  “They don’t have to,” said Mom. “They want to. They are Wilma’s friends.”

  “Well, I don’t like them.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Mom.

  “Where’s that lunch?” demanded Dick. “I’ll take it out just to get away from those silly girls. But not on crutches—I can walk as good as anybody. I’m not using crutches any more—hear?”

  “Well, if you’re sure you don’t need them …” said Mom.

  Dick wanted to go out to the oats field where the combining was going on, but at the same time he hated to go. He felt sick that he could not drive the tractor. But he could not keep away. He would go out and watch for a while. He could look at his traps on the way back. He had set traps for pocket gophers the day before. Pocket gophers could ruin an alfalfa field, and Dad wanted to get rid of them.