To Be a Logger

by Lois Lenski

  “Somebody might steal him!” she said. “And if we close up the car, he’ll have a heatstroke. I’ve got to find water for him to drink.”

  After the parade, Mom drove to Aunt Alice’s, where they had lunch. Everybody admired Rusty’s cage. Jinx had made it from two wicker wastebaskets, one upturned over the other, with the flowered and ruffled lampshade on top. Jinx took Rusty out of his cage and the little cousins, Bobby and Ronnie, clapped their hands when he crowed. At last they started for the school yard. Jinx and Joel carried Rusty in his cage, and the others trailed along behind.

  Joel began to wish he had never come. There were too many people, and worse still, too many roosters. Everybody else had the same idea—of training a rooster to win a prize. Boys and girls of all ages and sizes were bringing in all kinds of outlandish cages, with roosters of all sizes, shapes, and colors. There were poor old scroungy ones and big fat Plymouth Rocks. And plenty of banties, plenty of Golden Seabrights just like Rusty. In fact there were more banties than any other kind. Everybody seemed to think like Jinx, that banties crowed the most and the loudest. In a mob like this, how could poor little old Rusty win a prize?

  Joel and Jinx stared at all the fancy cages. A price offered for the most original cage had brought out some fearful concoctions—pens made like igloos and medieval castles, tepees and Quonset huts; pens made out of hardware cloth, dish drainers, sifters, and sieves, or just plain chicken wire; cages trimmed with flowers and foliage and tissue paper and ribbon bows. There were as many kinds as there were owners. On the cages were labels with the roosters’ names in large letters: Dandy, Gold Nugget, Black Fella, Casey, Sugarfoot, Eureka, Golden Feathers, and others.

  All around were people milling, men in cowboy boots and hats, women in flowered dresses, younger ones in pants, little boys riding ponies, young mothers pushing babies in carriages, children hanging onto balloons and letting them go. It was dusty and hot in the open schoolyard, but nobody seemed to mind, as they wandered among the concession booths and exhibits, and looked over the rooster cages.

  “Too many people!” growled Joel. “I don’t like this.”

  “Aw, come on,” said Jinx. “Let’s find a place.”

  They had to register the rooster, then find a place for him on one of the tables under the row of shade trees. At last they squeezed Rusty’s cage in between two others. Crowing Oscar was on one side and Little Moe on the other. Crowing Oscar was a white leghorn and Little Moe a banty. The girl who owned Crowing Oscar said she had been crowing back at him for a week. The boy who owned Little Moe said Moe was an orphan, one of four, Eeenie, Meenie, Minie and Moe. The other three had died.

  “He’s tame,” said the boy. “He’s used to people.”

  All the noise and conversation and excitement and crowing came to a sudden halt, when at 3 P.M a policeman fired a blank cartridge to start the “Crow.” All the owners had been moved down six places, to stand before someone else’s cage, to keep tally. Each person had pencil and pad to make a mark each time the rooster in front of him crowed. The rooster who crowed most often in half an hour was to win the prize.

  Everybody was excited, even the roosters.

  Joel was in the line for counting, so Jinx stayed as near Rusty as possible. When she heard the shot, she pulled off the black cloth, but Rusty did not respond.

  “Crow, Rusty, crow!” cried Jinx. She clapped her hands, she blew in his face, she scattered his feed. But Rusty did not crow.

  A man leaned over the rope behind her, which kept spectators back.

  “Wring his neck!” he said. “Make chicken dumplings out of him and eat him tomorrow.”

  Jinx turned around and glared. She was madder at the man than at Rusty. Just then Rusty crowed. Jinx clapped her hands. Rusty’s attendant marked down one crow.

  Jinx noticed the other roosters and listened to comments.

  “That one just eats.”

  “Golden Feathers hasn’t crowed once.”

  “Champ looks sick. He’s moulting.”

  “Big Mouth keeps it shut. He’ll keep everybody awake all night.”

  The other contestants were having troubles, too. But now that Rusty had started, he kept on, so Jinx was hopeful.

  A man in a big white Stetson hat marked KSHA Radio kept coming around and making announcements through a microphone.

  “Anybody over 20 crows?” “In third place right now is 26 crows.” “Independence has 32, Black Fella—35, Little Baldy—40 … Ah! We’re goin’ up now. Rusty—51, and 65 for Matchstick … Let’s beat the record of 109 crows in 1953! Keep crowin’, all you little roosters and win that prize!”

  Then all at once it was over. Another shot rang out, a giant voice over the loudspeaker announced that the First Prize winner had crowed 95 times in half an hour, Second Prize, 80 times, Third Prize, 69 times.

  Joel hurried back to Jinx.

  “Who got it? Who got it?” he asked. “Did you hear the names?”

  “No,” said Jinx. “Rusty did pretty good, but …”

  The next minute somebody grabbed Rusty in his cage and somebody else took Jinx by the arms and marched off with her. Joel had to hurry to keep up. Where were they going? Where were Mom and Sandy and Aunt Alice and her family? He couldn’t see them in the crowd anywhere.

  Then, up on the platform, whom should he see but Jinx. Other boys and girls stood beside her in a row. The loudspeaker was shouting and people were clapping. But Rusty—Rusty had not crowed enough. Something was wrong somewhere. Somebody had made a mistake. Why didn’t Jinx tell them?

  Joel looked around. People were crowded around the grandstand. There at the back he saw Mom and Sandy and Aunt Alice and the boys. They were all clapping hard. On the platform now, Jinx was standing at the microphone. The man beside her announced:

  “This little girl, Jinx Bartlett, came all the way from Drum to enter her rooster Rusty. Rusty didn’t quite make First Prize, but Jinx gets ten dollars for having entered from the farthest distance,”—he handed her an envelope—“and ten dollars more for the best decorated cage!”—then another envelope. The crowd clapped noisily.

  Joel heard Jinx say in a high clear voice, “Thank you very much. Next year my rooster will do better.”

  The crowd clapped again, still louder.

  Then it was all over and the people got down from the grandstand. First Prize, 95 crows went to Matchstick, Second Prize, 80 crows to Black Fella, and Third Prize, 69 crows to Jasper. Even though Rusty did not crow enough, Jinx was happy. She grinned from ear to ear.

  “Good grief!” cried Mom, when they pushed their way through the crowd and finally located Jinx with Rusty in his cage. “If I’d a known you were winning a prize, I’d a washed your hair and got you a new dress.”

  “Too late now,” said Joel.

  “She looks like a gypsy,” said Aunt Alice, “with all that ragged hair.”

  “It’s a ‘pixie’ haircut,” said Sandy, “the homemade kind!”

  Jinx put her prize money in Mom’s purse and Joel helped her carry Rusty in his cage to the car.

  The Rooster Crow was over for another year.

  Excitements seemed to come in bunches. Right after the Rooster Crow came the Fourth of July.

  “Let’s have a picnic,” Sandy and Jinx begged Mom. “Everybody has a picnic on the Fourth of July.”

  “Your Dad hates picnics,” said Mom. “Remember he has a picnic lunch every day in the woods. It’s no fun for him.”

  “At least we’ll have a snowball fight,” said Jinx.

  From the freezer she took out a dozen snowballs she had saved from last winter. They had frozen into balls of ice. She and Joel threw them at each other.

  Then Dot Kramer came and said that an old-fashioned loggers’ picnic was being held at Jed Allen’s place, and everybody was invited. Mom and the girls got ready to go. Joel said he wouldn’t go unless Dad did. When he saw Dad putting on clean jeans and shirt, and shaving, Joel got ready, too. He figured Billy Weber would be there a
nd maybe Jim Hunter and Snuff Carter and some of the other boys.

  The picnic was a great letdown, at least for Joel—all but the food, which wasn’t half bad.

  Joel went in at the kitchen door. The Allens’ kitchen was a madhouse. It was jammed with men and women, shouting, laughing, joking, drinking, and pounding each other on the back. Joel squeezed through into the living room. Here, all the furniture had been pushed back against the wall and people were sitting there watching. In the center of the floor dancing was going on, to the tune of two noisy guitars played by two men from the local tavern, over in the corner.

  Children of all ages ran in and out, bumping into the dancers and being stepped on, crying and having to be picked up, and eating and dropping cookie crumbs, and spilling ice cream and yelling. Most of the dancers were loggers, who danced with the same vigor that made them loggers, throwing their partners around with wild abandon. The women sometimes got winded and had to sit down to catch their breath before they got up and went at it again.

  Gosh! thought Joel. And they call this a picnic! It was hot and stuffy in the small room and smelly from perspiration of the hardworking dancers who thought they were having fun. Young people were not dancing, only the middle-aged and old. Crying babies and loggers—what a combination!

  Joel stomped out the door.

  In the field beside the house, he could at least breathe clean air. He saw Snuff and Jim and went over to join them. Billy Weber was there, too. They had been turning cartwheels. It was fun for a while, then they wondered about the food.

  “The women were fixing salads in the kitchen as I came through,” said Joel.

  “And the barbecued chicken is ready,” said Billy. “Ed Adkins said he’d cooked twelve chickens. Let’s go eat.”

  At the back of the house, tables had been set up in the grass. Two women were bringing food out. Besides fried chicken, they brought wieners, potato chips, potato salad, baked beans, and buns. The boys found paper plates and began to fill them. They sat on the ground and ate.

  “What! No desserts?” cried Billy Weber.

  How funny. There were no puddings, pies, or cakes. Not even Jell-O. The men and women, drinking and dancing inside the house, did not come out to eat. The noisy twang of the guitars, the laughing and shouting kept on and on. Would it go on all night and the next day, too?

  Joel did not see Mom and Dot Kramer at all. Where were they—inside somewhere? Jinx and Sandy and the Kramer girls, Donna and Sherry, found plates and filled them. Dad and Jake Hunter and Harry Carter and a couple of other men squatted on their haunches at the side of the house. Joel filled a plate high and gave it to Dad. Dad took it and began to eat. But he never stopped talking.

  Joel sat down beside the men to listen.

  What were they talking about?

  Logging, of course. They were logging in words, not in deeds. They were cat-logging and high-leading and truck-driving. They were listening to whistle signals and watching out for guy lines and dodging chokers. They were enjoying broken ribs and sprained ankles and brain concussions. They were fearless and unafraid, never tired, always brave.

  It was good talk to listen to.

  Joel was glad he had come to the picnic, after all.

  Chapter Six

  THE RUNAWAY

  The vegetable garden was halfway up the hill. It was planted to vegetables—beans, tomatoes, carrots, beets, but mostly potatoes. There were endless rows of potatoes, because Mom wanted enough to last all winter. And the potatoes were full of potato bugs.

  Something had to be done about it, so Dad told the children to pick potato bugs. They could not go swimming until the vines were clean. Dad meant what he said. There were four rows of potatoes for Sandy, four for Joel, and four for Jinx. All morning, Sandy and Joel worked hard, stopping only now and then to straighten their backs. They carried small cans of kerosene and knocked the bugs off into the cans. They came back after lunch to finish up.

  But Jinx would not help.

  She had many excuses. Her banties, her baby chicks, her chipmunks needed her attention. Her head ached, her back ached, her legs ached. The sun might give her sunstroke. The truth was she did not like to pick potato bugs and was trying to get out of it. But nobody took pity on her, or offered to do her job for her.

  Joel and Sandy finished their job and went away.

  “We’re going swimming!” they cried. “You can’t go till you do your job.”

  They put on their bathing suits and ran down the woods road.

  “I’m coming with you,” called Jinx.

  “Better get after those potato bugs first,” warned Joel.

  Jinx felt sorry for herself. Now she was left alone to do a hateful job. Why did they have to go away and leave her? Why did Dad choose such hateful jobs for his kids to do? Now Mom was easy. If you made a fuss about doing something, Mom would usually end up by doing it herself. But not Dad. Dad was strict. What Dad said, had to be done, or there would be trouble.

  Slowly she went back up the hill to the garden. The sun was hot now, hotter than it had been all morning. She got her can of kerosene and went into the potato patch. She began picking the potato bugs off one by one, flipping them into the kerosene.

  What was the use of having a garden anyhow? Something always ate up the vegetables—rabbits or deer or porcupines of bugs or worms. Or else they dried up in midsummer, if you didn’t water them. Why not let the potato bugs eat the potato vines? Poor things! They needed some food to eat! And that would save all the trouble of digging the potatoes in the fall.

  Jinx knocked a bug into her can and sighed. Suddenly she felt someone was watching her. She looked up. There was Billy Weber.

  He scowled, staring at her.

  “What ’ja doin’?” he asked.

  “Pickin’ potato bugs. Wanna help?”

  “Naw!” said Billy.

  He just stood there and stared.

  “What you want?” asked Jinx.

  “Nothin’,” said Billy.

  Jinx shoved some more bugs into her can. She did not like to be watched. She wished Billy would go away. But he didn’t. He just kept on standing there.

  “Does your mother know you’re over here?” asked Jinx.

  “Naw,” said Billy. “Never tell her where I’m goin’.”

  “Won’t you catch it when you get home?” asked Jinx.

  “Naw,” said Billy. Then he added. “A lickin’ don’t last long and a scoldin’ don’t hurt.”

  Jinx had to laugh. It was true.

  “Where’s Joel?” asked Billy.

  “Gone swimmin’ with Sandy,” said Jinx. “Down in the creek, back of the store.”

  Billy turned and left. He walked slowly down the woods road. He would be going swimming, too, right in his clothes. He did not have any bathing trunks.

  The other kids were all swimming there now, too. The Kramer girls and Betty Carter would be there, maybe others. Everybody but Jinx. She felt very sorry for herself. She looked at the long rows of potato plants. They looked endless. It would take years to get to the end … Besides, she hated picking potato bugs.

  Jinx set the can down in the middle of the row. This was the limit. She refused to pick another bug. But what would Dad say when he came home at night? She knew she could not face him. She did not want a licking or even a bawling out.

  “I’ll show them!” she said aloud. “I’ll just run away!”

  The idea was a good one. Immediately she felt better. This was an idea that meant action—not just squatting in a potato patch in the hot sun.

  She ran into the house.

  Good thing Mom was gone for the day with Dot Kramer, so the coast was clear. She ran to her bedroom, found a battered old suitcase and threw her clothes into it. She borrowed Sandy’s comb and brush and also a string of pretty beads from Mom’s bureau. She found her purse with her money and tucked that in, too. No telling how much she might need—in a strange location.

  It would be fun to live somewhere el
se for a while. Then they would all be sorry. Jinx snapped her suitcase shut, full of excitement and determination. She wrote a little note and set it up on the kitchen table.

  “I’m running away from home,” it said. “Don’t try to find me.” She signed it Jinx.

  “Oh yes, a little food,” she cried, stopping at the icebox. “No telling when or where I’ll get my next meal.”

  She picked up a small box of cornflakes, some cookies, and a banana. Then she took time to make two cheese sandwiches. She put the food into a paper sack and tucked it inside the suitcase. It was enough to take care of an emergency.

  She marched off down the woods road, swinging her suitcase at her side. Somehow it was very exciting to be running away. Why had she never thought of it before? Too bad there wasn’t someone to see her go. But no, it was better if they didn’t. That would spoil it all.

  When she reached the highway, she could hear the boys and girls in the swimming hole. They were yelling and screaming and she knew they were having fun. She wished she could join them. For a moment, she thought of hiding her suitcase under a bush and going over to have a swim.

  But awkward questions—about potato bugs—would be asked. No, it was better to stick to her plan. Jinx was not one to be easily diverted. She was running away and so run she must.

  She started south on the highway, walking along in the weeds and grass at one side of the road. She walked as fast as she could go. She hoped no one that she knew would pass by and stop to ask questions. An awful thought crossed her mind. What if Mom and Dot Kramer came along in Dot’s car and saw her? No. There was no danger. They would not be back for hours yet.

  She kept on walking …

  Joel did not enjoy his swim very much. The water felt cold and made his teeth chatter. Goose pimples came over his arms and legs. He sat on a rock in the sun to try to get warm. Billy came and sat beside him. They talked about cat-logging.

  Then the girls started splashing water on them. Donna Kramer picked up crawdads and threw them. Sherry teased Joel and said his hair was turning green from the creek water. Sandy and Sherry began fighting over a towel. Sandy knocked Sherry’s glasses off into the water. The girls began quarreling, each blaming the other. Sherry made Sandy and Donna and Betty wade in the creek, hunting for her glasses.