Free Little Joe by Sandra Neil Wallace Page B

night.
    “Milkers don’t spend half as long with their mothers.” Eli spread his chore coat over Little Joe. “Not more than a few weeks. Sometimes one day. Maybe not even.” Eli couldn’t quite remember.
    Spider licked Little Joe’s eyelids.
    “If you were a peeper, it’d be even worse. They don’t even get to see their mamas. They’re still jelly beans when they’re left alone to hatch.”
    Little Joe rolled onto his side along the blankets.
    “You’re too big to nurse, anyhow,” Eli said, resting his head on Little Joe’s belly. He stretched out his arms, but the bull calf had grown beyond them.
    Spider crawled under Little Joe’s neck and purred, spinning herself tight against him like a ball of yarn.
    She fell asleep first, then Little Joe and Eli, until the orange splinters of daybreak woke them up. The rain had stopped tapping on the barn roof. Eli could hear the sound of the bull calf’s heart beating in his ear. “Guess we got our own story to tell,” he whispered. “About the night you got weaned and it hurt so bad I stayed with you. And Spider, too. All night.”
    Little Joe’s breath was softer now, and slower.
    Eli figured there’d just be puddles outside, now that the rain was over. He could hear the birds again and the gutters gushing water. “I’ll try and remember to tell you that story when we win the blue ribbon,” Eli said. Hecould just imagine the silky blue prize pinned onto Little Joe’s halter. “We will. You’ll see.” Eli stroked Little Joe’s nose. “I promise. And this’ll be your stall now. It’ll get better from here on in.”
    All three of them were covered in sawdust when Pa came into the barn. Eli stumbled to his feet and shook off the bits of wood.
    “What are you doin’ here, son?”
    Eli rushed to get the feed bucket outside the pen. “The calf keeps growin’, Pa,” he murmured. “Thought I’d feed him. In case there was a flood or something. On account of all that rain.”
    Pa craned his neck, looked up at the pen’s ceiling, then kicked up some sawdust. “Looks dry to me,” he said. “Listen. He’s gotta learn to be on his own, Eli.”
    “But he’s barely a teenager.”
    “Who told you that?”
    “Grandpa.”
    Pa took his cap off, then put it back on. “Sounds like you’re spending a whole lot of time talking and not enough on chores.” Pa walked to the tack room and got out the spade, the one with the sharpest point. Eli knew what that meant. “Just ’cause you got a bull calf don’t mean you can quit on your chores.” Pa handed him the shovel. “It’s time you dug up thistles.”
    “But I got school.” The hair on Eli’s arms bristled. He hated digging up thistles. And he was certain Pa knew it. Last year he got at least one bubbly blister from the wooden handle, and his eyes stung whenever a pricker whittled its way into the work gloves.
    “Start with the pine fields, Eli. There’s at least an hour before school.”
    Eli snatched the shovel away from Pa.
    “Remember, slice the roots at least two inches below the soil to make it worthwhile. And don’t go moving them. That’ll just make the seeds spread.”
    “I’ve done it before,” Eli hissed.
    Pa swung around and stared hard at him.
    “You showed me, Pa.”
    A sudden movement in the barn caught Pa’s eye. He looked in the direction of the pen. Little Joe was peeking over the wall and blinking at him.
    “You’re gonna need a fan for that show stall,” Pa said. “To keep him cool so his hair don’t shed.” Pa brushed some sawdust from Little Joe’s neck with his hand. “We’ll hang one up after school. Once you got the thistles done.”

Chapter Nine
First Cut

    Grandpa took the show stick and lifted the pale green sheet. Eli knew what was under it. Every June since he could remember, Eli’d helped Grandpa get out Old Red, the trusty Farmall tractor, for the first hay cutting of the season.
    “Still in mint condition,” Grandpa said. He whistled, he was