Abele Abele Carlo Vissani hardly found what his father deemed 'good, honest work' and what his mother called 'something to build character, bella bambina' to be what HE consider 'fun'. He didn't enjoy feeding the animals, or gather up the hay, or checking the crops. He would much rather be doing something else. But his mother had said 'Get it done soon, tesoro' and his father had added a 'And get it done RIGHT, figlio', so he didn't have much of a choice not to do it. After all, he was the oldest child, and the only son. Who was going to inherit the farm later on in life? His younger sister? No, no; as much as he despised the work, it was going to be him, so he might as well get used to it now, rather than later. So, that's why he was out, trudging to where they kept the hay in the storage house. His hair, as usual, was a complete mess, with leaves and stick sticking out, making him resemble one of this mother's pin cushions, which she made sure to decorate with fancy little flower pins and things that did not really make any sense to him to have. His shirt was somewhat of a wreck, with tears in it from accidentally rolling down a nearby hill while trying to chase down a run away sheep. Needless to say, he did not catch the sheep, but he very well might've caught a infection from all the things that stabbed him on the way down. Abele sighed a bit to himself, running a hand through his hair and knocking out some of the debris that littered it. Then, he went to the hay stack, taking out the pitchfork from the pile. Time to get this done and over with, so he could possibly REST for a bit. An idea that seemed a bit foreign to him, at the moment.