It takes a lot of land to make a little hay.
I remember the excitement of haying the few times I go to go as a boy. Not much haying in a mill city like Manchester, but my grandfather was the egg man for Chelmsford and parts of Lowell, and many of his neighbors had hay fields. It was an adventure, and in retrospect, more risk of breaking your neck than we would allow now. Children were in the bed of the truck, theoretically helping stack bales in an orderly fashion but mostly hanging off the side and whooping. I never heard of anyone getting hurt, but then, we wouldn't, because we would have chalked it up to "acting like a jerk when there was work to be done" as opposed to "engaging in a dangerous activity where children shouldn't be allowed."