Man Of The Field

The little boy whistled as he meandered down the quiet country road, kicking at loose stones along the way. The miserable sky was grey and spitting, and the wind whipped sporadically through the rich green fields in sweeping waves. Not far from the road the boy spotted a lonesome scarecrow, strung up on a wooden frame. His curiosity ignited, he strayed from the road.

The scarecrow’s outstretched arms were draped in a tattered black trench coat, with straw splayed from the sleeves and collar. His face was concealed by a scarf and felt hat. The boy was impressed; this was the best scarecrow he had ever seen!

Behind him the boy heard a crunching sound, and turned to see an old man in a tweed coat hobbling up the hill. It was the farmer. His chin was covered in silver whiskers, overshadowed by a big nose and bushy eyebrows.

“What are yer doing out ‘ere?” the farmer barked.

“Nothing, sir,” the boy stammered. “I just wanted to see the scarecrow.”

“Get out of ‘ere!” the farmer growled. “Back to town with yer!”

The boy turned on his heel and scampered back toward the road. In a sharp gust of wind the scarecrow’s felt hat was knocked clean off his head. The farmer looked up at his straw man, who returned his gaze with a lifeless stare. His skin had turned a sickly grey. He had begged for his release, and promised not to say a word. He had lasted for almost a week. The old farmer bent down on stiff knees and picked up the hat, dusting it off. He reached up and repositioned it on top of his scarecrow’s head, pulling it firmly down into place. And with that, the old man waddled back down the hill toward home.