LITMIR.BIZ

      The boys were dripping sweat but happy and working hard, and while they worked they sang an old church hymn they had converted into their Official Hay Haulers’ Song. It was called “See the Morning Sun Ascending.”

      See the morning sun ascending,

      Radiant in the eastern sky.

      Hear the angel’s voices blending

      In their praise to God on high.

      Alleluia, alleluia.

      Alleluia, alleluia.

      I won’t say it was a great job of singing. Slim and Loper had their little talents but nobody had ever accused them of being great singers. Still, the song fit the mood and rhythm of the work, and somehow it made us all forget about the sweat and blisters and sore muscles that just seem to be a part of alfalfa hay.

      Once we got the bales hauled, it was time to mow down the other half of the alfalfa. Slim climbed on the tractor, made half a round, and broke down.

      The mower had thrashed a bearing, several sickle blades, and other items too numerous to mention. And at that very moment, the entire ranch was plunged into darkest gloom and despair.

      You ever spend any time around a cowboy who’s forced against his will to repair farm machinery? It’s no fun, let me tell you. No more singing, fellers. All at once everyone on the ranch is wearing a long face and kicking things and going around MAD.

      Broken machinery seems to have a bad effect on a cowboy’s disposition. That’s especially true on our outfit because all of the machinery is junk.

      Now, if I was running the ranch, I’d go out and buy some haying equipment that stayed in one piece and actually WORKED—you know, tractors that didn’t leak water and oil and grease and diesel fuel, and didn’t have to be pulled every time you wanted to start ’em.

      And a mower that didn’t eat bearings for break­fast every day. And a baler that could tie ten bales in a row without being overhauled. And a hay truck with brakes.

      Little things like that.

      But did the cowboys ask my opinion? Oh no! I was just a dumb dog, and what did I know about running a ranch? So they kept their junky old farming equipment, and every year at haying season we witnessed the same wreck, the same mad scramble to patch up the machinery, and the same long faces.

      We dogs might be dumb, but no dog in history has ever tried to farm 30 acres of alfalfa hay with equipment that ought to be in a museum or a junkyard.

      I’ll say no more about it, except that if they had listened to the Head of Ranch Security, things would have gone a whole lot smoother.

      So there we were, in the midst of our annual Farm Equipment Wreck. Slim and Loper hauled the mower over to the machine shed and

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