Taking the matches, we
tiptoed quietly back downstairs and outside, being careful not to disturb Mom
and Grams in their canning.
Once outside, we hurried back
to our campsite in the bullpen, anxious to start our campfire; at least, I was
anxious. Some of the cows had strolled
over to watch, probably hoping we’d invite them in for a sing-a-long. I took out one of the matches and struck it,
but without success. I tried match
number two, then three…four. After
exhausting a book of matches, I realized we’d gotten more heat banging two
rocks together.
Our dilemma called for
aggressive action---a heart-stopping idea.
“I was just thinking…maybe we should use some hay.” Lester wrinkled his face and started to get a
bit fidgety. “I don’t know if that’s a
good idea,” he volunteered.
“You’re right,” I said. “We’ll just go to the barn. There’s plenty of hay there; no use hauling
it over here.”
I sat on Lester for about
fifteen minutes, until his nervous jitters subsided. Then he followed me to the barn, still
tugging a bit at my shoulder and almost dislocating it.
Arriving at the barn, we
found it full of hay, from top to bottom, and end to end.
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