I want to get the hay on this
meadow into the barn, and then I'll feel safe,
rain or shine."
"And you want me to help you?"
"Yes; you look strong and hardy."
"Yes, I am pretty strong," said Carl, complacently.
"Well, what do you say?"
"All right. I'll help you."
Carl gave a spring and cleared the fence,
landing in the hay field, having first thrown
his valise over.
"You're pretty spry," said the farmer.
"I couldn't do that."
"No, you're too heavy," said Carl, smiling,
as he noted the clumsy figure of his employer.
"Now, what shall I do?"
"Take that rake and rake up the hay. Then we'll
go over to the barn and get the hay wagon."
"Where is your barn?"
The farmer pointed across the fields to a
story-and-a-half farmhouse, and standing near
it a good-sized barn, brown from want of paint
and exposure to sun and rain. The buildings
were perhaps twenty-five rods distant.
"Are you used to hayin'?" asked the farmer.
"Well, no, not exactly; though I've handled
a rake before."
Carl's experience, however, had been very
limited. He had, to be sure, had a rake in his
hand, but probably he had not worked more
than ten minutes at it. However, raking is
easily learned, and his want of experience was
not detected. He started off with great
enthusiasm, but after a while thought it best to
adopt the more leisurely movements of the
farmer. After two hours his hands began to
blister, but still he kept on.
"I have got to make my living by hard work,"
he said to himself, "and it won't do to let such
a little thing as a blister interfere.
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