“Because, The-o-dore,” and Grandpa Martin’s eyes twinkled as he used the long name which Ted’s mother called him only on very special occasions, “we’re going to hitch the horse to it and rake up the loose hay about the field. You see a lot gets scattered when we’re loading the wagon,” he explained, “and we must rake it up to save it. It isn’t right to waste hay, or anything else that is food for real folks or animals. So hop down.”
Ted jumped down to go over where his sister was sitting in the shade of the big rick wagon, she having become tired of being out in the sun with Ted.
One of the men hitched a horse to the rake and drove about the field, collecting the loose hay. The rake had two big wheels to it, with a high seat in the middle. Behind the seat were some curved prongs of iron, like the teeth of your garden rake, only more than fifty times larger. They were made large to pile up a lot of hay at once.
When there was a big bunch of hay, held in a lump by the curved teeth of the rake, the man driving pulled a handle, the teeth rose up in the air over the pile of hay and left it to be gathered up and pitched on the wagon. Then the man dropped the teeth and they gathered up more wisps of the dried grass.
“I wish I could do that,” said Ted, as, sitting beside Jan, he watched the hay-rake moving about the field.
“The-o-dore Martin! Don’t you dare!” cried Jan.
“Dare what?”
“Get on that hay-rake.”
“Well, maybe I won’t. But, just the same, I wish you wouldn’t call me The-o-dore. It sounds as if I’d done something.”
“All right, I won’t,” laughed Jan. “I’ll call you Curlytop.”