[Taken from, When Life Was Young, by Charles Asbury Stephens (October 21, 1844 – September 22, 1931), Many of Mr. Stephens’ most memorable stories concern five orphans of the Civil War who return to live with their grandparents on a farm in North Norway, Maine. The following story of haying is told by the youngest of those five.]
A Boy Learns a Lesson
But to proceed, we had thirty-one “tumbles” of dry clover to get in after supper from the south field. The Elder and the Old Squire did not go out with us.
“You’ll have to make two loads of it,” the latter remarked as we set off. “Put it in the ‘west barn.’ You need’nt hurry. The Elder and I will grind the scythes to-night.”
I climbed into the rack and rode out to the field, Asa driving and Addison coming on behind, to rake after the cart. Jim and Halstead had gone on ahead, to rick up the hay.
“Two loads, wal, they won’t be very large ones,” Asa remarked.
“What’s the use to go twice?” I said. “I can load that hay all on at once.”
Asa looked round at me, as I afterwards remembered, in a somewhat peculiar manner, and I now imagine that both he and Addison at once began plotting my abasement, and passed the “wink” to the others.
“You couldn’t do it,” said Asa.
I studied the amount of hay on the ground carefully, reflected on the number of “tumbles” I had previously loaded, and then foolishly offered to bet that, if they would pitch it slowly, I could stow every straw of it on the rack at one load and ride the load into the barn. I did not once think that we were to put the hay in the west barn, and that the great doors of that barn were not as large as those of the south barn, being but twelve feet high.
The others saw the trap which I was setting for myself, but kept quiet and laid wagers against me. The more they wagered, the more eager I became to try it, if they would not hurry me.
Asa began slowly pitching on the hay to me. I laid the load broad and long, and without any very great difficulty stowed the thirty-one “tumbles.” It was a large load but a shapely one. I was not a little elated, and chaffed the Doanes considerably. They kept ominously quiet.
We started for the barn, I riding in triumph on the load, and I did not see the danger before me till we were close to the great doors. Asa did not stop.
“Haw, Buck! Huh, Line, up there!” he shouted, and drove fast. The top-piece over the doors struck the load fully three feet down from the top, scraping off about half a ton of hay and myself along with it. I landed on the ground behind the cart outside of the doors, with all that hay over me! The rest of the load went in, amidst shouts of laughter from the others.
I lay still under the hay, to hear what they would say. Then they all came around and began to call to me. I kept quiet. Finding that I did not move nor answer, they grew alarmed. The Old Squire and Elder were seen coming. “Boys,” says Asa, “I dunno but it’s broke his neck!” With that he and Jim seized their forks and began to dig for me so vigorously that I was glad to shout, to keep from being impaled on the fork-tines.
I crept out and rose to my feet a good deal rumpled, bareheaded and shamefaced.
The Doanes, Addison and Halse had been so frightened that they did not now laugh much. The Elder looked at me with a curious expression; and the Old Squire, who had begun to say something pretty sharp to Asa and James (who certainly deserved a reprimand), regarded me at first with some anxiety, which, however, rapidly gave place to a grim smile. “Well, well, my son,” said he, “you must live and learn.”
One afternoon later in the month, while we were getting the hay in the east meadow, an exciting incident occurred. Asa was pitching on hay and I loading, for I still liked that part of the work. The Old Squire was raking after the cart, and the others were raking hay into windrows a little way off. As we were putting on the last “tumble,” or the last but one, a peculiar kind of large fly, of which cattle are strangely afraid, came buzzing about old Line, the off ox. The instant the ox heard that fly he snorted, uttered a bellow and started to run. The very sound of the fly’s hum seemed to render the oxen quite frantic. Almost at the outset they ran the off wheel over a rick of logs, nearly throwing me headlong from the load. I thrust my fork deep and held to that, and away went the load down the meadow, both oxen going at full speed, with Asa vainly endeavoring to outrun them, and Gramp shouting, “Whoa-hish!” at the top of his voice. We went on over stumps and through water-holes, while the rest ran across lots, to head off the runaways. At one time I was tumbling in the hay, then jounced high above it; and such a whooping and shouting arose on all sides as had never before disturbed that peaceful meadow.
Coming to where the brook made a bend across the meadow, the oxen rushed blindly off the bank, and landed, load and all, in two or three feet of water and mud. When the load struck the brook, I went off, heels over head, and fell on the nigh ox’s back. The oxen were mired, and so was the load. We were obliged to get the horses to haul the cattle out, and both the oxen and horses were required to haul out the cart. Altogether, it was a very muddy episode; and though rather startling while it lasted, we yet laughed a great deal over it afterwards.
So, that ends our young hero’s haying adventures. Quite different from today’s hay conditioners, field-choppers, and balers.
Sam Moore
