The Secret Furrow Rally — Every day after breakfast, Corbin drove the small tractor in straight, sensible lines: fence post to gate, gate to barn, barn to shed. Read the full story →
Every day after breakfast, Corbin drove the small tractor in straight, sensible lines: fence post to gate, gate to barn, barn to shed. He liked the engine’s pop-pop-pop, but he wanted a race no one had ever tried, so he scratched a map in the dust and named it Furrow Rally.
Then one windy afternoon, thunder rolled over the hill farm and shook leaves loose like green coins. The creek jumped its banks, and the goats’ hay bales sat stranded by the lower field. Because of that, Corbin’s new course suddenly mattered: his zigzags avoided the soft mud. Because of THAT, he could hook the wagon, splash past the fence, and haul dry hay and two sloshing water cans to the little goat shed before anyone came looking.
“Fast track, quiet wheels,” he whispered, grinning as rain ticked on the tractor hood. By supper, the goats were munching, the wagon was back, and only the curving tire marks knew who had raced the storm. If you follow the rows and rails with your eyes, can you find where Furrow Rally began?
