Free Corn-Farm Boy by Lois Lenski Page B

her not to look. Over at the barn door, the children were crying with fright. Dick ran across in front of the tractor, hoping to hop on after it passed. He narrowly escaped being hit. He had to go and lean against the barn door to get his breath. His heart was pounding. The tractor was going in bursts of speed, now faster, then slower, then faster. Denny was frightened now. He had let go of the wheel and was hanging onto the seat with both hands.
    â€œStand still, Denny! Don’t move!” called Uncle Henry. “Daddy’s coming.”
    Dad shouted to Raymond. It was Raymond with his long legs who got there first, leaped on from the rear and stopped the engine. The next minute, the tractor banged into the broad side of the barn. It broke the siding into splinters and went halfway in. But Denny was safe. Raymond had leaped off just in time, with the boy in his arms.
    They all crowded round Denny, and, like a baby, he was passed from arm to arm. His tears were soon dried and he smiled broadly, happy to again be the center of attention.
    â€œI can drive Daddy’s new tractor, can’t I, Mom?” he bragged.
    Aunt Etta smothered him in kisses.
    â€œBetter give him the spanking he deserves,” said Dad.
    â€œI told you,” said Uncle Henry, “these modern kids can drive by instinct. You don’t need to teach them how.”

    This time Dick spoke up. “But Uncle Henry, he might have killed somebody.”
    Dad added, “He might even have killed himself.”
    Wilma stalked off, disgusted. “Now Denny will be more spoiled than ever,” she said.
    The women and girls took Denny and went back in the grove to clear up the picnic. The men and boys stayed at the scene of the accident. Raymond backed the tractor out and they found that only one fender was bent. The chief damage was the big hole in the side of the barn. Uncle Henry said he would bring lumber to repair it the next time he came out from town.
    â€œDad,” said Dick, “how about a game of horseshoes?”
    â€œFine,” said Dad. “It wouldn’t be Fourth of July without horseshoes. A fine old American custom.”
    â€œThere’s only one better,” added Uncle Henry, “and that’s firing firecrackers, the way we did when we were boys. But they won’t let us do that any more.”
    â€œDick,” said Dad, “run and bring the horseshoes.”
    Dick went in the barn. Across a two-by-four beam hung a collection of old horseshoes of all sizes. On pegs at one side hung many sets of harness, now dust-covered, mute symbols of the past. Dad refused to throw any away. Dick still remembered the time about six years before when Dad sold his last team of horses. Dad refused to lead them out to the truck at the end of the lane. The man had to come in and get them. Dad went into the house so he would not have to watch them go.
    Dick stopped and fingered the harness. If he could only have lived in the days of horses, he would not mind being forbidden the tractor. A horse was something alive. A person could love a horse far more than a machine. A horse had as much intelligence as a dog, a lot more than a hog. Machines had no personality at all, no understanding, no intelligence. They were dangerous.
    Dick remembered the time when “the iron man” came to get the old horse-drawn machinery that was not used any more but was all lined up and rusting in the grove. Dick and Raymond had watched while the iron man tore it all down. He drove off with two big truckloads. Dad did not watch that go either.
    But the men were waiting for him. Dick took the horseshoes out and the game began. The cheerful clang, clang of the iron horseshoes against the iron stake, the dull thud as they hit the soft ground and bounced in the dust satisfied the boy. He could play almost as well as Dad could. But Earl, his cousin, could never hit the stake at all.
    That night they ate supper indoors. Afterward,