My Timothy

4

 Hot and dog-tired, and smelling like Old Bob, the mule, June looked out over the meadow.

"Oh, no," she whispered.

Today was her birthday. She was forty years old. Today. Nobody had thought to mention this fact. (The fact that Parley was the only soul on the farm who could did not enter June's mind.)

But here was Stink.

And it was very unlikely that little rascal would forget.

Her meaty hand gripped the rusty hand plow, and she clucked to let the old mule know that their rest time had ended. June struggled to keep the row straight in the rocky soil, noting the occasional spark thrown by the iron plow as it careened and popped off the hard lumps of stone littering this plot which Parley wanted for next year's corn crop.

"Hey, Bug," the little boy called out.

"Hey, yourself," June yelled.

He waited patiently for June to finish her row.

Smiling like a Cheshire cat who'd eaten every canary within five miles, Stink brought his hand from behind his back. June laughed. He was holding the old arrowhead she'd found as a girl. She'd given it to the boy, knowing it would be a treasured keepsake to him.

"What you doin', Stink?" she asked.

"I'm loanin' this to you," he said, shoving his dirty hand her way as if giving her diamonds and rubies. "For the whole day. It's yours."

"Oh, Stink," she said. "I really appreciate this. I do. But shouldn't you keep it safe? For both of us, I mean?"

"Naw," he said. "I figure it was safe enough with you before you gave it to me. Just remember, it's a loaner. Not a keeper."

June smiled, took the gift, and placed it inside the front pocket of the bib of her overalls.

Just then, a car drove up, stopping in front of the house.

"Come on," June said. "Let's head to the barn. My day is shot. Old Bob might as well enjoy a few hours rest and a few extra oats today."