During the War years 1943-45 my father was caretaker at a mansion in Concord MA. To get gasoline for his two 12-cylinder Lincoln Continentals, the owner became a farmer and hired Dad, two Norwegians up the road, some teenagers from Boston who bunked in the former Conservation Corps barrack, and my brother and me. I don't know what the others earned, but Joe and I got 25 cents an hour the first year, 30 cents the second, and a near-adult wage of 35 cents that final summer. Not only did the owner get a farmer's ration coupon for the Continentals but unlimited gasoline for the Allis Chalmers tractor.
The implements were all for horse-farming. As the littlest guy, I got to ride on the side-bar cutter and the tedder and when the hay was all windrowed, I got to ride on the wagon, tramp down the hay, and with my pitchfork catch the hay that the older boys forked up to me. So you don't need a baler; all you need is a gang of elementary- and high-school boys. (Girls too, I suppose, these days.)
I never saw any mice in that hay barn. There were rats in the horse stable, though. Dad killed them with a pitchfork.
>(men tend to die when they quit working)
Damn right. I've kept working, and I'll be 91 in three weeks.