Chapter Eleven
The Front Seat on the Bus
THE storm was followed by three weeks of clear, hot weather. The lake was soft and clean, like rain water. The garden thrived in the heat, and the little rabbits grew sleek and fat, and kept everyone busy gathering clover for them.
One morning Janie awoke to hear the clop-clop of the farmer’s horses as they walked down the road. They were drawing an elaborate machine painted bright red and yellow, like a circus wagon. The farmer, all in faded blue, looked drab by comparison.
“Mom,” she called. “Look at the fancy wagon the farmer has this morning. What is he going to do with that?”
Mom raised her shade, and the boys popped their heads out of the upstairs windows.
“That is a brand new reaper,” she answered. “My, doesn’t it glisten! This must be the first time he’s had it out. That machine cuts the grain, then ties it into sheaves. He’ll stack them in yellow shocks all over the field, and Aunt Claire will sunburn her nose while she puts it all on canvas.”
Janie wriggled her way back to the middle of the bed, and reached down to the floor for her slippers. Harvesting meant August, and August meant hayfever. Hayfever meant going to town to the doctor’s office for shots. She made a face, but it wasn’t so bad, really. Just a quick little pinch, like getting caught with a pin.
“Mom,” she called again. “When do I go to town for my shots?”