Farmerettes by Gisela Sherman Page B

acted stuffy, Peggy admired the tall girl who strode with such confidence—and she enjoyed annoying her. Peggy tapped Helene’s arm and they followed. Rita joined them, and the other girls scrambled into trucks of their choice. Soon two groups pulled away, horns tooting, girls waving.
    â€œThe strawberries are ripening early this year, not too many yet, but we need to pick them before it gets too hot. The baskets are already out there,” said Jean as she led them down the path toward the field. The last thing Peggy saw as they turned a bend was Isabel, running from the dorm. She stopped and stared in dismay at the third vehicle—a beat-up-looking wagon pulled by a muddy tractor.
    Binxie
    Binxie followed Jean along the path beside a fenced field where two cows and four horses grazed. Wildflowers dotted the grass and the air smelled fresh. The four farmerettes paused to admire the heavy-muscled legs of the Percherons. A beautiful gray one trotted up to Binxie and she stroked its velvety muzzle.
    Helene came up timidly behind her. “You’re not afraid it’ll bite you?”
    Binxie smiled. “They’re gentle.”
    â€œIt’s ironic,” said Helene, standing well back. “This breed was used by the British to fight the Great War, and now their job is farmwork.”
    â€œYou think humanity is getting wiser?” said Binxie.
    Helene sighed. “The horses were replaced by tanks—to do even greater damage.”
    In the distance an airplane droned. Binxie tracked it for a moment, then said, “Airplanes too. They travel faster and destroy more.” It wasn’t the first time she wished her sister had become a nurse instead of a pilot. She retrieved an apple from her lunch bag, snapped it into quarters, and fed a piece to each horse.
    â€œYou’re good with them,” said Peggy.
    â€œI love horses. Used to ride them every summer at my cottage.” It would be nice to be there now, but she knew she was where she had to be.
    A foul odor blew from the back of one horse. Oslo again. Grimacing, the girls backed away.
    â€œJust don’t light a match near him,” called Jean as she continued on the path to the berry field. The girls hurried after her.
    â€œWhat a glorious day,” Peggy exclaimed. “This will be such fun!”
    â€œSay that again at noon,” said Jean.
    â€œDid I hear someone at breakfast mention a baseball game?” Peggy didn’t miss a beat.
    â€œNext Saturday,” Jean replied. “Local teams. We’ll roast wieners afterward.”
    â€œSounds like a blast!” said Peggy. “Wish there was dancing too.”
    Does this girl ever shut up? wondered Binxie.
    â€œWe’ll have a square dance soon. Probably at the growers’ party in a couple of weeks.”
    â€œOh good. So there are lots of boys around here?”
    Jean gazed coolly at Peggy. “Girls too.”
    Binxie smiled to herself. Were they actually arguing over farm boys?
    They had reached the strawberry patch. Jean handed them each a large wooden tray of empty baskets. “When these are full, bring them to the head of a row and get another one.”
    Jean showed them how to grasp the stem just above the berry, pull with a slight twist, and allow it to roll into their palms. “Pick only the red ones. Green ones won’t ripen after they’re picked. Pick any rotten or damaged ones too, and toss them into the middle of the aisle.”
    The girls squatted in the straw-covered earth between the rows of berries and began. Jean watched for awhile, warned them not to injure the plants, then went to work herself. Chatting and joking back and forth to each other over the rows, they started strong, happy in the sunshine.
    Two hours later, there was less talk. It was hot. Binxie’s back hurt. Her knees ached. She tried crawling from bush to bush, instead of the awkward crab walk, and it helped—a little. Sweat