Dick kicked the animal when it came near. It turned again. Dick knocked it in the creek, but the blow only stunned it. It started coming after the children. Wilma, who had stood by ready to help, took off her shoe and threw it to Dick. The boy caught the shoe and hit the animal on the head with it as hard as he could. At last it was dead.
But it had done its work. All the children had been sprayed and one of the cows. Dick and Wilma got the worst of it. The children stood around and looked at the dead animal. Then they looked at themselves. Patsy and Betsy fell into each other’s arms sobbing.
Wilma said, “Heavenly days! That’s nothing. Things like this happen all the time on a farm. It was only a skunk.”
Dick took a deep breath. “Never saw a skunk behave like that in my life before.”
“Only a skunk!” sobbed Betsy. “Just look at us!” She lifted up her ruffled, flowered skirt. “And smell us!” sobbed Patsy. “I hate your old farm, and I’m never coming out here again as long as I live.”
Wilma looked down at her old shirt and ragged jeans. She was glad now she had changed. But she was too genuinely sorry for her cousins to brag about her own good luck.
“We’ll have to bury all our clothes,” she said quietly.
“Bury our clothes?” said Patsy. “What do you mean?”
“Why, these dresses are just new,” sobbed Betsy. “We just bought them for the Fourth of July picnic. Can’t we wash them to get the smell out?”
“Skunk smell will never come out,” said Wilma.
“If we bury our clothes, what will we wear?” wailed Patsy.
“Oh!” said Wilma. “We’ll dig up some old rags for you to wear back to town.”
“That smell is on my hands and arms too,” cried Patsy.
“And all over my legs and shoes and socks,” added Betsy.
“We all have to take baths,” said Wilma flatly.
“And have a good long soak,” said Dick. “We know what to do. This has happened to us plenty of times. Mom has some special soap to use and a disinfectant. But even then, it takes a lot of soaking.” Dick turned the animal over with his foot. “Old Skunky, you know how to protect yourself from people all right, don’t you? We wouldn’t have made trouble for you if you hadn’t chased us.”
The cow that had been sprayed ran to the far end of the pasture. Buster could not bring her in. Dick called him and the children followed the cows. Dick picked up the skunk and carried it by the tail.
“Why do you bring that nasty old thing?” asked Patsy.
“I want Dad and Raymond to see it,” said Dick. “It must have had the rabies. A good thing Buster is such a coward and wouldn’t come near. If the skunk had bit him, he’d get the rabies too, and have to be killed.”
“I heard Dad say the Ludwigs killed a rabid skunk last week,” said Wilma. “Where’s Popcorn?”
“Gone back to the house,” said Dick. “I’m glad he didn’t stay with us.”
Dad and Raymond and Uncle Henry and Margy met the children halfway back to the barn. Dick threw the dead animal at Raymond’s feet.
“What’s this?” laughed Raymond. “A new pet?”
“DON’T COME NEAR US!” warned Dad.
Uncle Henry began to joke and hold his nose and tease his daughters. But they did not think it funny at all. Margy ran back to tell Mom and Aunt Etta. Aunt Etta made a great fuss while Mom built a fire in the wash-house stove to heat water for the children’s baths. The clothes were buried by Dad and Uncle Henry and the wash-house was a busy place that night. As for poor old Buster, he had to spend weeks in the doghouse!
CHAPTER VI
The Lost Corn Knife
“We’ll have to get after those cockleburrs,” announced Dad one evening.
“Ugh! Cockleburrs!” All the children groaned.
It was several weeks after the Fourth of July and the picnic with its exciting ending was a thing of the past.
“A single burr when it first forms is poisonous and can kill a hog,” Dad went on. “If we leave one plant, it’s as bad as leaving five hundred. The seed is carried by dogs and rabbits. It will wash down a creek and scatter over a whole field. It can lie dormant for seven years and still germinate and produce a big crop.”
“Don’t we know it!” complained Raymond. “We’ve spent all our lives pulling cockleburrs, chopping them, spraying them, and they’re still there—all over the cornfields.”
“Not all over,” said Dad cheerfully. “The west forty is pretty clean. But the south side of this eighty along the fence where it meets the hogs’ clover and down by the creek, is bad. We must get them out before the burrs get ripe and seed themselves. If we don’t do it, the neighbors will soon be saying, ‘Old Man Green is taking over the Hoffman farm.’”
“Who is ‘Old Man Green’?” asked Margy.
“That’s another name for Grandpa Cockleburr,” said Dad.
“When we went over to Hasses’ to chop theirs out,” Dick said, “Mr. Hass paid us two dollars a day and fed us a big dinner too.”
“On your own farm, you don’t get paid,” said Dad flatly. “But I’ll tell you a secret—the sweet corn is ready to pick.”
“Corn-on-the-cob!” cried Wilma. “Yum! Yum! I’ll chop cockleburrs if I can have about ten ears to eat for dinner.”
The next morning after chores and breakfast were over, Dad called everybody to come. “It rained a little last night,” he said. “The cockleburrs will pull easy.”
Pulling cockleburrs was a family affair in the corn country. Mom and Wilma put on old slacks and shirts of Dad’s. Mom wore a scarf around her head and Wilma an old straw hat. Margy wore Dick’s old dungarees, big enough to fall off her. Dick and Raymond left shoes and socks at the house and rolled their pants up to their knees. They all started out. Both dogs went with them.
Because it was still early, it was damp and foggy out in the cornfield. The corn was up to a man’s shoulder now, just beginning to tassel. The curly stiff leaves hung in curving arcs and rustled against each other. The wind began to blow the fog away. By noon it would be bright and sunny with midsummer heat—good corn-growing weather.
The family spread out at the edge of the field. Dad and Mom and Raymond took four rows each. Dick and Wilma took two, Margy tagged along between Mom and Wilma. Most of the plants were young ones, with burrs just starting to form on the tips. They were easy to pull from the soft wet ground. When Dick or Wilma found one they could not pull, they called out, “Big one!” Dad or Raymond came over with the corn knife and chopped it out, cutting the root open so it would not grow again. They hung some of the larger plants on the cornstalks to dry them out. The smaller ones were left lying in piles in the row.
Dick hated cockleburrs and he hated getting rid of them. The cornstalks were wet, still dripping with rain from the night before. Pollen from the tassels dropped on bare necks and arms and stung them. The sharp edges of the long leaves hit Dick’s face and cut it sometimes. Heavy corn in the ear bumped him on the head. The ground was so muddy it was hard to walk.
“Mom,” said Wilma, “Rita Hass is going to sign up for detasseling. The Standard Seed Company is going to haul boys and girls out to their fields to detassel the hybrid corn. Rita’s going and Donna Ruden is thinking about it.”
“If you girls think it’s going to be fun,” said Raymond, “you are going to find out different.”
“But they pay well,” said Wilma, “and I need some new clothes for school this fall. Can I go, Mom?”
“I’ll talk to Mrs. Hass about it,” said Mom. “If she lets Rita go, I suppose you can, too.”
“We have to sign up at the Farm Bureau office next Wednesday,” said Wilma.
Dick reached up to find a tassel. “Boy, how you’ll have to stretch!” he cried.
“But I’m taller than you,” said Wilma. “The girls have to be above five feet and I’m five feet two inches. You have to be fourteen, but they’ll take you at twelve if you’re tall enough.”
“If you
get much taller,” said Dick, “you’ll look like a cornstalk yourself. That yellow hair of yours is just like a corn tassel.”
“Mom!” called Margy. “I’ve lost both my rubbers. They came off in the mud.”
“Dick,” said Mom, “see if you can find her rubbers.”
Margy had been walking in and out of the rows. She would follow one row until she found a stalk missing. Then she went through the empty place and followed another row. It was like going in and out of doors.
“When we get away from the ends,” Margy went on, “I feel like I’m lost.”
“You stay here by me,” said Mom. “We haven’t time to go off hunting for little lost girls.”
By the time Dick found Margy’s rubbers, her shoes had come off. Wilma and Mom had the same trouble. First they discarded rubbers because they became caked with mud and too heavy. When their shoes became caked too, they took them off and walked in bare feet. Dick ran back to the fence with all the shoes and rubbers. Dad and Raymond worked fast and got ahead.
“Hurry up, you slowpokes!” called Dad. “Let’s try to keep together.”
Margy stopped playing and tagged beside her mother. Dick’s legs began to get tired and ache. But he kept on pulling and stayed abreast of Wilma and Mom. The rows were long and twisted in and out over the rolling hillside. The hours passed slowly.
“Sometimes I wonder what the corn is talking about,” said Dick. “Do you hear that rustling, when the wind passes over the field?”
Wilma turned to Mom. “Dick believes he can hear the corn grow,” she said, laughing.
“I’m not the only one,” said Dick. “Scientists have proved it.”
“What does it say, Dick?” asked Margy.
The boy frowned and bit his lips. “I know but I won’t tell,” he said firmly.
At last dinnertime came, so Mom and Margy went back to the house. Wilma wanted to prove how strong she was, so she went ahead with the two men. Dick found Buster covered with burrs. He led him back to the barnyard, where Margy waited. Poor Buster’s shaggy hair was so covered with burrs he could not sit down. His tail was matted like a rope and Dick had to clip wads of his fur off. Then he sat down by the stock tank and patiently picked burrs out of the dog’s long hair. Popcorn came up, panting.
“What are you laughing about, Stubby Tail?” asked Dick.
“Is Popcorn laughing?” asked Margy.
“Can’t you see that big grin on his face?” asked Dick. “He’s laughing because his hair is short and he doesn’t get stuck up with cockleburrs like Buster does.”
“I brought me a great big cockleburr bush from the field,” said Margy. “It’s all covered with burrs.” She dragged a huge plant behind her.
“I’ll take it and burn it,” said Dick.
“No, Dick,” said Margy. “Don’t burn it yet.”
Margy began picking the burrs off carefully. By sticking them together, she made a row of play baskets and dishes.
“See how nice they are, Dick?” she asked.
“They’re nice all right,” said Dick. “But you better not let Dad see you doing that. He’ll stop you in a hurry.”
Dick went to water the hogs and Margy followed.
“Do you remember that little runt, Squeaky?” asked Margy.
“Sure,” said Dick. He pointed her out in the pen.
“Oh, that’s not our Squeaky. She was a runt,” said Margy. “She was little and cute.”
“She grew up while you were not looking,” said Dick. “I fed her so well, she grew into a big hog.”
“Is she still cute?” asked Margy.
“Not very,” said Dick. “Sometimes she’s just plain mean, like her mother Susie used to be.”
Mom came out with a bushel basket.
“I know what you’re after,” said Dick. “I’ll bring in the sweet corn, Mom.” Mom went back to the house.
The sweet corn patch was at the edge of the vegetable garden, beside the potato patch. Margy followed at Dick’s heels. Dick went over to the rows.
“Look here, Margy,” said Dick. “The coons have found the sweet corn already.”
“How do you know?” asked Margy.
Dick pointed to the damp ground. “See their tracks?” He found a plant with empty husks hanging down from the stalk. “Old Mr. Raccoon ate his dinner right here.”
“Why?” asked Margy.
“Why? Why do you eat? Because he was hungry,” said Dick. “He likes corn-on-the-cob as much as we do. He goes right down the row, stands on his hind legs, reaches up and pulls the ears down. Then he snaps off the corn and eats it, leaving the husk hanging. The field corn is too tall for him to reach, that’s why he comes in our sweet corn patch.”
Margy came up closer and Dick showed her. “See the mud on this ear? His paws were muddy. He reached up, looked at this one and left it. It wasn’t ripe enough to suit him. He left it for us.”
Margy stared, her eyes big with wonder. “Why don’t you catch Old Mr. Raccoon and have him for a pet?”
“I’d like to,” said Dick. “Maybe I will some day. No, sir, people are not the only ones who like corn. Besides raccoons, woodchucks and field mice eat it, too. They depend on it. If Dad doesn’t grow a big crop and spill a lot of it all over the fields, they’ll go hungry this winter.”
“The squirrels, too?” asked Margy.
“Yes, the squirrels eat most of all,” said Dick. “I often find large piles of corncobs at the base of squirrel trees. The ground squirrels dig the soft kernels up out of the dirt when the seed corn is sprouting in the spring. But they get the tummy ache from the bug poison and fertilizer on it!”
Margy laughed. “How do you know?”
Dick’s eyes twinkled. “Statue told me so.”
“Statue?” said Margy. “Who is Statue?”
“She was a mother ground squirrel I used to know,” said Dick. “Once when I was taking a letter out to the mailbox for Mom, I nearly stepped on her babies. The mother sat straight up like a statue and scolded me. That’s why I named her that. So I left them in their nest. I took corn and oats to them, but they liked their wild mustard seed pods best. Then winter came and they went down into their den to sleep.”
“And you didn’t see them any more?” asked Margy.
“In the spring they were gone,” said Dick.
Dick took the basket of sweet corn into the house and he and Margy husked it. Mom had the kettle of water boiling and soon the corn was ready to eat. Dad and Raymond and Wilma came in from the field. They washed up and came in to eat. Dick sprinkled salt on the hot steaming ears, one at a time, and watched the yellow butter melt and run. He kept turning the ear as he nibbled the corn. He lost track of the number he ate.
“I’m so full of corn,” he cried at last, “I feel just like Old Mr. Raccoon!”
Everybody laughed. After dinner, Dad announced that he would spray the weeds by the road. He told the boys and Wilma to go back to the cornfield.
“Can I go, too?” asked Margy.
“You can stay in with Mom, Margy,” said Dad.
Dad went out the lane with his spraying outfit. The tractor pulled the sprayer with its big barrel and long hose. The last thing Dad said was, “Boys, be careful with that corn knife. Be sure you don’t get cut with it.”
“Come on, Dick,” called Raymond.
Somehow it took the boys a long time to get started.
“Just a minute,” answered Dick. “I want to see how many little chickadees there are in that nest in the apple tree.” He ran out.
“You leave those green apples alone!” Mom called out of the window. “They’ll make you sick. Don’t eat them.”
“They never made me sick yet,” Dick replied, “unless it was when I was little and didn’t know about it.”
“Bring me in a basket of corncobs before you leave,” added Mom.
Dick got his pockets full of green apples and slid down.
“There are five little chickadees up there,” he told Wilma.
He handed a few apples to his sister. Then he added, “The secret is to put salt on them.”
“On the chickadees’ tails, you mean?” asked Wilma.
“No—on the green apples, silly!” laughed Dick. “It makes them taste better and it keeps you from getting the stomachache.”
“Who told you that?” asked Wilma.
“Nobody,” said Dick. “I learned it myself. Here, put some salt on them. I sneaked the salt shaker out of the kitchen when Mom wasn’t looking.”
Wilma shook salt on hers. Raymond nibbled green apples too, and they started out. Dick stopped at the cob pile in the barnyard and took a basketful in to his mother. Then he caught up with the others. Wilma began to spit hers out.
“They’ve got no taste,” she said. “Those red ones Mrs. Hass uses for pies are better. They’re tart and sour.”
They went into the field, looking for cockleburrs. Raymond carried the corn knife. Dick and Wilma wore old gloves for pulling. All three were barefoot, with pants rolled up to their knees. They found this part of the field fairly clean, so they moved leisurely. Dick’s sharp eyes were interested in all kinds of other things than cockleburrs.
He spotted a meadow lark’s nest in the adjoining pasture, so he went over to look. It had one baby in it—only one, with orange-yellow fur on it. The next thing he saw was a red-winged blackbird’s nest in a sour dock among the cattails at the edge of the ditch leading to the creek. The mother bird flew back and forth over his head and scolded him. So he did not go too near.
“Hey!” called Raymond. “We’re not hunting birds’ nests. We’re chopping cockleburrs.”
“Oh, but look!” cried Dick. “There’s Goldie, our cow. What’s she doing down here? I’m going over to see.”
The next minute Dick was gone. In a short time he came running back, excited and panting.
“Goldie’s had her calf,” he said, “right out there near the windmill. She’s in a low place by the creek where there’s lots of water. If we don’t take it in, the calf will die sure. It’s a pretty little calf, too—what I can see of it.”