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Show HARVEST TIME. Wo had only twenty acres of barley. It would have been considered quite a field "f grain in tho old days of my boyhood, back n the Indiana farm. Those times the mon watched the grain as it ripened, flung an eye on tho deepening deep-ening yellow of it as thoy gave tho corn its last plowing laying it by, they called that rarowoll cultivating. And on a day selected, two or three or laybo four, of tho neighbor men would como over in tho early morning, bringing thoir cradles and rakos, and two would start in cradling the grain while two more would follow, raking and binding. Wo boys had to carry tho shearos to-gothor. to-gothor. I'll bo darned if I can rcmombor whothor it was six or twelve in a grpop. But along in mid-aftornoon mid-aftornoon two of the men would quit cutting and binding, and begin "shocking" tho day's harvest. There is a music about cradling grain. Tho big, broad, curving blade;. is whottod to a keen edgo, tho long "stone" ih the baud of the cradlor swinging in really graceful action, tho contact of stone with stool ringing very musically. And with that sound comes tho mpmory of quail thoir cheery "Bob White, is .y.Qur wheat 'most ' ripe?" recurring in tho memory ears whenever tho whelting sound is heard. When tho blade was sharp, tho cradlor stuck the long "stono" in a pocket, picked his position, swept tho cradle from loft to right, then -swiftly, forcefully from right to lofU-and harvosling had begun. There was music-in the cutting, too. No whirr of machinery, no coughing of an engine, no dust-rousing tramp of horses is identified with my memory of harvest. Just the sweet, clear, clean sound of the cradleblado through four feet wide of ripe grainstalks, just the low bush of tho cut grain falling oven and true as it left tho curved taper "fingers" of the old hand cradle, and Iho forward halfstep and backward swing of tho arms for succeeding strokes. The binding now is a lost art. But those days tho man who followed tho cradle would catch that oven breadth of cut-grain carpet, roll its'-accumulating bulk-along, whacking tho butts p" rejected out bf line, until ho had enough for 'a sheaf. Then ho would Stoop down, gather a handful having fairly long straw, grasp it half a foot from tho head with the loft hand, divide tho bunch into halves with his right, bring ono portion Up and over and around and bind up his sheaf as securely as a salesman will bind your bundle with twine. And then he would hurry on after tho cradle. I have known cradlers go fast enough to keep two men binding after them. And I have known binders fast enough to boast of "keeping up with a machine." Along about ten o'clock in tho forenoon some ono always came out from tho house with a jug of ginger beer. We did hoar of harvest Holds where lager beer was served. But my people peo-ple wore Presbyterians, and temperance ruled The ginger beer was an excellent hot-weather bovc us Men could drink it in quantities, howovor warm with sun and exercise they might bo and continue their labors. It furnished tho stomach just tho gently warming reaction, and lassitude. Tho dinner bolls of tho neighborhood rang at eleven-thirty, or thereabout; only wo had a conch sholl, and Lydia would blow it, pressing ono opened hand against her oar to exclude the raucous sound, I suppose; while Punch, tho watchdog, would come near her, sit down and lift his voice in a howl as awful as that of tho sholl. I used to wonder why ho didn't go away if it hurt him. Dinner for harvesters was a task for tho -women. Those men from tho field surely were gonerous diners. They came in hungry but good humored. They sat down at tho temporarily lengthened table, where I had to swing a brush of locust leaves to k'eop away tho flies, and tho dishes heaped with meat and vegetables and broad and buttor and sauce would have to bo replenished time after timo. Tho cooking was done with wood in an iron stovo, and tho kitchon heat was like that of a boiler room. Water was brought from tho pump outside tho house. There woro no screens of any sort. And tho summer heat in harvest time was very pitiloss. I wonder how those farmer womon livod through tho season but they did. And they carriod away tho dishes and brought on pies when thoy had vanquished tho ravening appotitcs of tho men. Thoy gavo them ooffoo and tea and milk, and thoro was a pitoher of wator mighty seldom graced with a lump of ioo. And at ono o'clock tho men would bo back in tho harvost flold, while tho womon Hurried through their dishwashing and swooping to bo roady for a repetition a duplication of tho NMlMHHHIBHHHMHMKfiS meal at suppertimo. And then tho cleaning up, iho milking and tho dairy oares extended labor, both of women and of men, far into tho night. Add to that tho fact of heat radiating from earth and buildings, from metal and stone, from tho very grass and trees, and you can find small hope for comforting and refreshing sleep till well into tho morning hours. That was farming in those days. About nine o'clock in tho forenoon ono day last week tho man with tho Header drove into our Tooele county barley field, cut tho last blade of tho crop, ran it from machine into wagons and stacked it in two heaps ready for tho thresher and got away in the late afternoon. Ho had his own men, and they got their own dinner. I don't know what thoy ato, but I do know they didn't run races to see how many times they could send smothering women into a smothering kitchen for additional supplies. Wo miss tho music of tho cradle, ana tho jokes of the men when tho ginger beer wont round. But we save a good deal of almighty hard work at tho house. Maybo it costs more to harvost this way. But it is worth more than it was in the olden, the golden days. |