THE SHEEP DIP
mortage so that his boys would be forever safe on the farm.
The boss had flung up his fist before the blacksmith. He had
fired out in the middle of church, "You're one dumb fooL"
And now while the farmers were gabbing about picketing and
strike, all he muttered was, "You can't work it that way.
A
farm ain't a factory. No, never."
We finally finished dipping one muggy forenoon. Instead
of waiting for dinner, the boss decided to drive the sheep back
immediately. The farmers agreed it would take us longer as
we were shorthanded. The youngest boy still tossed about in
bed. The old man, who had been cracked in the head, had also
stayed home. The sheep were weak and hungry. They had been
kept in a small dry meadow waiting their turn.
The farmer's wife gave us lunch wrapped in newspapers.
The old farmer yelled, "Good luck, Dutch." We set out by
foot. The horses had been left in the stable. The boss said
they wouldn't be much good if it stormed and the sheep got thru
fences.
The sheep trotted down the road loose. They pattered
from one side of the roaa to the other hunting grass. They
lost their mothers. Lambs knelt to suck. They were left suck–
ing air on their knees as the ewes pulled away. The black-faced
ram spied a gateway. He bounded thru. The flocks after him.
Hens cackled in the dooryard. Feathers flew. Purple martins,
scared from thei r nest high on a pole, fluttered wildly about.
The boys were too fagged to even whoop at them. The sheep
were in the garden. They trampled beets and carrots. They
punched holes thru flowers. They left wool on the barbwire.
Then the wind came to life. It scooped sand into mouth
and eyes. The wheel of a windmill hummed like a sharp spur
against the sky. \Vhile walking we tore at our sandwiches. The
boss stuffed his into his pocket. A bun'headed lamb dropped. He
picked it up without shortening his stride. The ruptured sheep
waddled into a ditch, sinking on her belly with a groan. He
reached over to thump her.
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