I loved being on my grandparents' farm. There was so much to explore. From the time I was very small I was able to look to my heart's content.
Of course there were the animals. I could look but not join them where they were. The only exception was the chickens. They were not in a pen. Sometimes I would chase one just for sport.
Grandpa had horses, cows, sheep, pigs, and for a short time a couple of mules. He loved his horses. I was too small then but in a couple of years he would start to teach me to ride.
By the barn was a smaller shed for hand tools and other things that needed to be stored inside. I really liked it there.
My favorite tool in there was the giant whet stone. It was mounted on a machine that turned it when the pedals on it were operated. Grandpa used it to sharpen all his tools. I pretended it was my bicycle.
One day I ran into the kitchen crying that the birdie bit me. Mom knew a chicken would not bite me and said so. She sent me back out to play.
Soon I was back in the house crying. This time when Mom checked me she found marks on my hands and arms. I told her that all I wanted to do was pet the birdie. She asked me to shew her where it was.
I took her hand and led her to the tool shed. "See the birdie?"
On the floor of the shed was a trap Grandpa had set. Caught in the trap was a rat.
I had been trying to pet a trapped rat. It was scared and trying to get away. When I tried to pet it, it snapped at me.
Needless to say I am fine. Grandpa disposed of the critter.
