She said, "Hello, Dad," and she added, as though it were an
afterthought, "The chores are done."
Joe frowned. At the same time, since he was tired, he knew some relief.
Half the families around put their children to work in the fields as
soon as they were big enough to pull weeds, but Joe had never liked the
idea and he didn't hold with his womenfolk doing field work at all. Men
were supposed to work the fields, but almost as soon as she was big
enough to do so, Barbara had taken a hand. She liked to do things, and
for all her seeming slightness she was very strong. Just the same, even
though he was relieved because he would not have to milk the cows, swill
the pigs, and do all the other things that forever needed doing, Joe
didn't like it. But he spoke with the gentleness that Barbara inspired
in him.
"You shouldn't be doing such chores."
She smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling, and Joe thought of Emma.
"I like to do them and it won't hurt me."
Because he did not know what to say, for a moment Joe said nothing. It
was unreasonable because a man always had the right to tell his children
what to do, but secretly he was still more than a little overawed by
Barbara. Then the silence became awkward and he asked,
"Where's Tad?"
"He--He's about."
Joe frowned. It was a foregone conclusion that Tad was about because
Tad, his eldest son, was always somewhere. Joe thought of his children.
After Barbara they'd waited seven years for Tad. Then Emma, Joe, Alfred,
and Carlyle, had arrived in rapid succession. If Joe understood any of
them he understood Tad, for the eight-year-old thought and acted a great
deal like the father. A wild and restless youngster, Tad was
wholeheartedly for anything he didn't have. As long as there was
something he really wanted he was entirely willing to work like a horse
for it.
Where the field joined the forest, a white and black dog of mixed
ancestry panted into sight and stopped to look expectantly back over his
shoulder. Joe stiffened, waiting for what he knew he would see now, and
a moment later Tad appeared with Joe's long-barreled rifle over his
shoulder and a cluster of squirrels in his hand.
Joe's anger flared. Tad loved to hunt, which was not unusual because all
normal boys did. But nobody eight years old had any business running
around the woods with a rifle and more than once Joe had forbidden Tad
to use his. Joe's face became stormy as the youngster drew near.
"What you been doing?"
Tad stopped, every freckle on his multifreckled face registering total
innocence and his eyes big with surprise. Joe fumed. The boy was like
him and yet they were not alike. Never in his life had Joe faced
anything in any except a direct way. He did not know how to pretend, as
Tad was pretending now.
"Huntin', Pa," the youngster said.
"Haven't I told you to leave that rifle alone?"
"You didn't tell me today."
"I don't have to tell you every day!"
"I didn't use but six shots."
Joe roared so loudly that the pastured mules looked curiously at him,
"It's no matter if you used only one!"
"I got six squirrels," Tad explained. "Mike, he put 'em up a tree and
kept 'em there. I just shot. Smacked every one of 'em plumb through the
head."
"Give me that rifle," Joe snatched the weapon, "and get in the house
before I tan your hide!"
"Yes, Pa."
The squirrels in his hand, the dog beside him, Tad trotted toward the
house. There was nothing meek or subdued in his squared shoulders and
upturned head, and for a moment Joe had an uncomfortable feeling that he
had been tested by an eight-year-old. He scowled and shrugged the
thought away while he felt a rising pride. Six squirrels with six shots
was good shooting anywhere, and young ones wouldn't be all they should
be if they didn't have a bit of the devil in them. He must keep the
rifle where Tad couldn't reach it, though. Maybe this fall, or as soon
as he could spare a day from the fields, it would be a good idea if he
took Tad hunting with him. He really wouldn't mind Tad's using the rifle
if he could be sure that it was safely used.
Barbara went to close the chicken coop. The rifle in his hand, Joe
walked to the spring house, leaned the rifle against it, and dipped a
pail full of water. He spilled some into a wooden bowl that stood on a
wooden bench and sighed deliciously as he washed his face and hands.
This, the final act of his working day, was one to which he always
looked forward. It was as though, in washing away accumulated sweat and
grime, he also washed away the troubles that plagued him. The end of the
day was almost like being born again.
There was a new spring in his step and a fresh tilt to his head as he
walked toward the house. He remembered Emma, not too clearly, as a
lovely young girl. Now her figure was mature. Hard work, childbirth and
worry had traced their own lines on her face. But to Joe there was
something completely fitting and even refreshing about that. A tree
could not forever remain a graceful young sapling. It had to grow, and
became strong with growth, in order to withstand winter blasts, summer
storms, fire, and other hazards that menaced it. Joe found in the mature
Emma a solid strength and assurance that he could not remember knowing
in the girl, and with it had come a deepening love. He met his wife and
kissed her. Emma stepped back and smiled.
"Did you have a good day?"
"It was a good one."
Her eyes dwelt on the rifle, and her brows arched in question. "Did Tad
have it again?"