Grade One boys gathered around the farm manager in the hayfield. He was on edge. “There’s enough grass in this field to feed the cows right through the winter,” he said, “but we need a good, solid, dry spell to harvest it.” He looked at the sky, trying to judge the weather.
Red Wolf felt the breeze on his face and was pretty sure that it wasn’t going to rain for quite a while. He considered telling Mister Boss this, but thought better of it.
“Haymaking is tricky. Rain ruins hay! Even a passing shower makes it damp, and it’ll grow mildew. Soon your sweet-smelling hay turns foul … musty, full of grey dust … makes the cows cough. But even worse than that, mouldy hay gets hot, really hot, so that it bursts into flames! I saw a whole barn go up once. It burned down in the blink of an eye, just because of mouldy hay. There wasn’t even time to get inside and open the stall doors. The cows and horses burned, too.”
The farm manager’s face crumpled briefly, then he gnawed at the edge of a fingernail and continued with his haymaking lesson. “But if you wait too long for a dry spell, the grass goes to seed, and that’s no good.” He yanked at a grass stem and passed it to the boys. “See, it’s perfect right now, just started to flower. We don’t want to wait much longer.” He looked at the children and singled one out. “And why don’t we want to wait any longer?”
“I don’t know, Mister Boss, sir,” the worried boy said.
“Because once the grass flowers, the plant puts all its energy into making seed. The seeds fall off as soon as they are handled. And then what do we have?”
Nobody volunteered an answer.
“A barn full of tough old stalks. Understand?”
The boys nodded.
“Yes, haymaking’s a tricky business.”
After another two days of sunny weather the farm manager finally made a decision. He sent the seniors across the field in a row, each youth swinging a long-handled scythe. The grass fell in orderly lines, like columns of schoolboys who had their legs knocked out from underneath them.
The following day lessons were cancelled so that every boy in the school could help in the hayfield. Red Wolf advanced across the field, gathering day-old grass, flipping it over and laying it back down. He stooped until his back was so sore he couldn’t straighten up, so he squatted and moved along on his haunches. Then he crawled on prayer-hardened knees with sweat stinging his eyes until the blazing sun disappeared over the horizon and the sky turned orange.
The following day, as soon as the dew burned off, they had to turn the hay again. Red Wolf ached all over, and his fingers were swollen and tender. When he squinted at them he saw fine thistle hairs embedded in his skin. He wondered how something so small could cause such discomfort.
It was hotter than the previous day, with not a cloud in the sky to offer a moment of shade.
“Haymaking and heat waves go hand in hand,” the farm manager announced. “There’s water in pails by the gate, but don’t think you can shirk by going to get a drink any old time. I’ll blow my whistle for a water break.”
By the end of the second day Red Wolf flopped straight onto his bed without changing into his nightshirt. When Mother Hall came in for prayers, most of the boys were already sleeping.
The next day, the hay was dry and ready to be gathered, but the air was hot and humid, and there was a haze in the sky.
“There’s a storm coming,” the farm manager warned. “Move faster!”
The seniors ran into the field pulling hay wagons and the juniors loaded the hay. Red Wolf tossed hay as high as he could, but most of it never made it into the wagon; it rained down on his head and shoulders, getting in the neck of his coverall and making him itch.
By the time the seniors had pushed the loaded wagon up the earthen ramp of the bank barn, they were dripping with sweat, hair plastered to their heads. The juniors stayed in the oppressive heat of the loft, unloading and sneezing, while the seniors rushed downstairs, where thick stone walls held the night’s coolness. They splashed themselves with water from the cattle trough until the farm manager complained they were wasting water. Then it was back to the field for another load.
Thunder was rolling in the distance as a Belgian mare the colour of rich honey trotted briskly across the hay field, a large empty wagon clanking behind her.
“I thought you could use some help,” the driver called out to the boys as he slowed the horse to a walk and guided her carefully through the rows of hay. “Load her up fast, rain’s on the way.”
The boys ran across the field like ants to a carcass, grabbing armloads of hay and flinging them up onto the moving wagon, their fatigue vanishing with the excitement. The horse sensed their eagerness and shook her head, jangling her harness buckles.
“Hi there, neighbour,” the farm manager called out. “How did you know we needed help?”
“From my place I saw these kids crawling all over the field. And I heard the thunder so I put two and two together. I’ve told you before, my friend, and I’ll tell you again. This school needs a good workhorse.”
The farm manager laughed. “Why do we need a horse when we have all these boys?”
“You could use one today,” the neighbour commented, disturbed as always by the subdued Indian children who worked as hard as grown men.
The horse pulled the final wagonload under cover just as fat raindrops started to spatter. The two men sheltered in the barn as thunder crashed and lightning forked angrily across the dark sky, but, unmindful of the danger, the boys stood in the pouring rain, letting the deluge cool them. One decided to strip his coveralls, another his boots, another his under-drawers. Before long the entire student body was leaping around stark naked, stomping in puddles and dancing in the sheets of water falling from the roof.
As the rain petered out, the farm manager poked his head out to look at the sky. He was appalled.
“What are you doing?” he yelled. “Cavorting like savages?”
The old man laughed. “No, they’re cavorting like children!”
The farm manager ignored him. “Have you all gone mad? Get your clothes back on before Father Thomas sees you.”
“They’re just being boys,” the old man said to the wind.
A few days after the hay was safely in the barn, impatient boys clustered around the barred windows that overlooked the driveway. They watched other children pile into the neighbour’s wagon that would take them to the train station and the long journey back to their reserves. And they stared into the distance, hoping that the next person to come into view would be their mother or father, big brother, or uncle. As the day progressed, the number of children at the windows decreased and, for those who remained, excitement turned first to apprehension and then to fear that nobody would come for them.
Mother Hall strode past the small group of remaining boys. “Are you still waiting?” she asked. “Perhaps your parents don’t want you no more. Heaven knows you’re a whole lot of trouble. I wouldn’t want you if I didn’t get paid for the job.”
It was late afternoon when Mister Hall strutted along the corridor, his cane lightly tapping the side of his leg with each footfall. He whacked Red Wolf on the side of the head.
“So your no-good father hasn’t shown up, eh?”
Red Wolf was silent, but then realized that an answer was expected. “No, Mister Hall.”
“Do you suppose he’s lying drunk in a ditch?”
“Yes, Mister Hall. No, Mister Hall. I don’t know, Mister Hall.”
“He probably spent all his ration money on drink and can’t even walk straight.”