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HARVESTING THE CROPS

4 “Stand up properly,” Meg said. “You can’t carry water all hunched over like
that.”
5 Willy wiggled his shoulders to make the yoke sit more comfortably, then
straightened up. The weight of the buckets made the wood bite into the back
of his neck.

6 “It hurts,” he complained.
7 “Stop fidgeting.” Meg moved the yoke slightly and the pressure eased.
“You’ll be fine. It’s a lot easier than lugging a bucket by hand. And you won’t
lose nearly so much water. Off you go. The men will be dying of thirst.”

8 Carrying water out to the hayfield had always been Meg’s or George’s job.
This year Pa wanted George’s help with the harvesting, and Ma had decided
that Willy and Sarah were big enough to carry water.
9 Stupid buckets, Willy grumbled to himself as he trudged off, I want to do
real work. Like George. That reminded him of George sitting at the
grindstone last evening. Making me turn the handle while he sharpened the
sickle. Thinks he’s so important just because Pa’s letting him help cut the hay
this year.

10 The sun beat down from a blue sky. Pa had been right about the weather.
“Listen to those cicadas sing,” he’d said the night before. “We’ll have good
haying weather tomorrow.”

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