Free Corn-Farm Boy by Lois Lenski Page A

perfect, Henry Shumaker, but we’re as contented here as if it were our own.”
    Dad looked at Uncle Henry and grinned. “The missus seems to know what’s best,” he said.
    Uncle Henry nodded. “It’s my missus—that city girl there—who keeps me cooped up in town. Down in my heart, I like the country better, too.”
    â€œNow, Henry,” began Aunt Etta, “you know that’s not true. You told me yourself you got dizzy doing that contour cultivating.”
    The men roared with laughter. Dick was relieved. It was funny now. The argument had faded away. Mom refused to let the holiday be spoiled. The men began to talk corn.
    Ever since hybrid corn had been introduced to the corn farmers, and had begun to be generally grown, they had sung its praises. Its stalks and roots were stronger, its yield had doubled and all ears within a given field were uniformly large, the rows even and well filled. Dad spoke of the days before the corn picker was invented, when all the picking was done by hand, and the hauling by horse and wagon.
    â€œWe are machinists now,” he said. “Not farmers any more. I spend far more time tinkering and repairing machinery than I do sowing, planting and reaping. Farms have turned into factories.”
    Dick went out to the big eighty, pulled the tallest cornstalk he could find and brought it back to show the men. He stretched his arm up to show how tall it was.
    â€œâ€˜Knee high,’ that’s nothing! It’s head high by the Fourth of July,” said Uncle Henry, proudly. “I never saw corn as fine as that before—”
    He stopped in the middle of his sentence and looked over to the barnyard. Dad and the women looked up, too. Dick stood staring. They all heard the roar of a tractor. It was the new one—Uncle Henry’s.
    â€œNow, who on earth—” began Uncle Henry. “I told those girls they were not even to ask to ride on the new tractor.”
    â€œWhere’s Raymond going?” asked Dad. “I told him we’d take a few days off, now that cultivating is done and the corn is laid by. I don’t know where he’s going.”
    â€œIt’s not Raymond, Dad,” said Dick.
    The men jumped up and the women too.
    â€œWhoever is driving,” said Uncle Henry, “don’t seem to know where they are going.” He looked at Mom. “Can it be Wilma? What’s she doing?” He glanced at Aunt Etta. “Patsy wouldn’t have the nerve, would she?”
    â€œIt’s not any of the girls,” said Dick. “It’s not even Earl. It’s Denny! ”
    By this time they could see that the tractor was going in a large circle around the huge barnyard. They all ran toward it. Mom and Aunt Etta came too. Over at the barn door stood the girls, Wilma and the twins, Margy and Earl. Dick ran toward them yelling, “Get him off! Get him off!”
    Then they saw Raymond tearing after the tractor. There was three-year-old Denny standing up, with the steering wheel firmly grasped in his small hands, trying to behave like a big man. He was smiling happily. He had turned the key on the starter, stepped on a pedal and started it all by himself. Now it was going where he wanted it to go—as easy as his own toy automobile at home. He was in perfect bliss. The tractor must have been left in gear on a downgrade, with wheels slightly turned. All Denny had to do was press the gas pedal with his foot and hold the wheel. The tractor kept right on going. He loved the loud noise it made.
    â€œ Den -ny! Den -ny!” screamed Aunt Etta, wringing her hands.
    She was ready to dash out in front of the lunging machine, but Mom pulled her back.
    â€œDon’t be foolish,” called Mom. “The men will stop it. The men will get him off.”
    â€œHe’ll hit something!” screamed Aunt Etta. “He’ll be killed!”
    Mom put her arms around Aunt Etta and told