strip of hay bordering the rushes of the swampy water that stretched in a wriggling line down the middle of the once-huge lake. The long stacks settled here and there, waiting for the winter that would whittle them down one by one. Thom thought of Pete and himself hauling hay each day, of the cold, and of the hoar-breathing horses. Would he be there to haul? Passing a stack, he saw Pete had halted; he aimed his team across the meadow towards the bending figure.
The rhythm of the horses’ hoofs on the stubble was like dry bread under a rolling-pin. Stems popped, dew flashing in sun-flung crescents before the running feet. It was too wet for anything except cutting. At the hay-edge he pulled up, swung over the rack-rail, and crunched along the cleared border of the single swath.
“Hi, Pete.”
“Hi, Thom. Thought you’d never make it.” Pete finished kicking the great jumble of jammed hay over the bar into the swath. His blue-denim trousers were black to the knee.
“Some of us have work to do at home too. Pretty wet, isn’t it?”
“Almost too.” Pete brushed a long series of spring-green insects from the cutter-bar. “Think I’ll walk ahead and see how far we can go. Papa said go as far as possible.”
The youths passed the horses who, swishing their tails idly,dreamed belly-deep in the slough-hay Thom, each step into taller grass, could feel the wet coming through his trouser leg. He paused, looking at the cut in the trees across the marsh before them, then back at the slash half a mile behind them. “Seems to me you’re edging over, Pete. Want our hay too?”
“Never know—those extra two fork-fulls may see us through the winter.” The yellow-throated blackbirds leaped hoarsely as they neared the rushes. Even while treading on the knife-like grass, which they knocked down in showers of dew, the ground began to ease away under the men’s feet. When they looked back, water seeped into the footprints while grass-blades bent ponderously erect, one by one.
“No good. The horses would go out of sight. Besides, it would never dry.”
“I guess we can go about as far as here, but it angles east sharply just in a ways. Our chunk is big yet.”
“Papa says there’s about as much hay on your one quarter as our two.”
“This year maybe. Last year the water was higher—that big stretch of ours is low. You’ll be done before us.”
“Even without Louis, it’s gone better than Papa hoped at first.”
“Elizabeth really worked.” For a moment Thom thought of her, tramping and setting stacks like a man for weeks. He ventured, “Isn’t it a bit hard—?”
Pete nodded his head slowly. “In a way, I guess. But Papa says that women in Russia worked like that all the time. She and Ma did when we first came to Wapiti too. If you’ve got stock, you’ve got to feed it.” Thom could not deny that. If it was true that there was nothing to the Mennonite life beyond hard work, as the English mentioned now and then, it wasespecially true in the Block family. He thought fleetingly of worn Mrs. Block. And of his own mother. Hacking a farm out of the wilderness demanded women strong as men,but once comparative security was reached—in work where did virtue end and cupidity begin? He could not remember anyone ever having shown him the line: it was never even mentioned.
He glanced at Pete, who stood looking south, absorbed in gauging the contour of the marsh and how far he should stay away from the seeping water. After a moment they pushed back, their teams waiting, the still-cool day seeming to hesitate over the ancient lake-bottom to see what they would do with it. Thom stumbled suddenly, feeling something abrupt against his boot. He bent to see. Pete, peering with interest, said,
“Shouldn’t be any rocks here in the swamp,” as Thom felt the broad turn of the horn. He tugged hard and it came up with moss and roots dangling. The lower nose had rotted away; the roll of bone at the skull-top and the
The rhythm of the horses’ hoofs on the stubble was like dry bread under a rolling-pin. Stems popped, dew flashing in sun-flung crescents before the running feet. It was too wet for anything except cutting. At the hay-edge he pulled up, swung over the rack-rail, and crunched along the cleared border of the single swath.
“Hi, Pete.”
“Hi, Thom. Thought you’d never make it.” Pete finished kicking the great jumble of jammed hay over the bar into the swath. His blue-denim trousers were black to the knee.
“Some of us have work to do at home too. Pretty wet, isn’t it?”
“Almost too.” Pete brushed a long series of spring-green insects from the cutter-bar. “Think I’ll walk ahead and see how far we can go. Papa said go as far as possible.”
The youths passed the horses who, swishing their tails idly,dreamed belly-deep in the slough-hay Thom, each step into taller grass, could feel the wet coming through his trouser leg. He paused, looking at the cut in the trees across the marsh before them, then back at the slash half a mile behind them. “Seems to me you’re edging over, Pete. Want our hay too?”
“Never know—those extra two fork-fulls may see us through the winter.” The yellow-throated blackbirds leaped hoarsely as they neared the rushes. Even while treading on the knife-like grass, which they knocked down in showers of dew, the ground began to ease away under the men’s feet. When they looked back, water seeped into the footprints while grass-blades bent ponderously erect, one by one.
“No good. The horses would go out of sight. Besides, it would never dry.”
“I guess we can go about as far as here, but it angles east sharply just in a ways. Our chunk is big yet.”
“Papa says there’s about as much hay on your one quarter as our two.”
“This year maybe. Last year the water was higher—that big stretch of ours is low. You’ll be done before us.”
“Even without Louis, it’s gone better than Papa hoped at first.”
“Elizabeth really worked.” For a moment Thom thought of her, tramping and setting stacks like a man for weeks. He ventured, “Isn’t it a bit hard—?”
Pete nodded his head slowly. “In a way, I guess. But Papa says that women in Russia worked like that all the time. She and Ma did when we first came to Wapiti too. If you’ve got stock, you’ve got to feed it.” Thom could not deny that. If it was true that there was nothing to the Mennonite life beyond hard work, as the English mentioned now and then, it wasespecially true in the Block family. He thought fleetingly of worn Mrs. Block. And of his own mother. Hacking a farm out of the wilderness demanded women strong as men,but once comparative security was reached—in work where did virtue end and cupidity begin? He could not remember anyone ever having shown him the line: it was never even mentioned.
He glanced at Pete, who stood looking south, absorbed in gauging the contour of the marsh and how far he should stay away from the seeping water. After a moment they pushed back, their teams waiting, the still-cool day seeming to hesitate over the ancient lake-bottom to see what they would do with it. Thom stumbled suddenly, feeling something abrupt against his boot. He bent to see. Pete, peering with interest, said,
“Shouldn’t be any rocks here in the swamp,” as Thom felt the broad turn of the horn. He tugged hard and it came up with moss and roots dangling. The lower nose had rotted away; the roll of bone at the skull-top and the
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