torm lay hard upon the wheat, we exulted as the
lilac shadows of noon-day drifted over it! We went out into it at noon
when all was still--so still we could hear the pulse of the transforming
sap as it crept from cool root to swaying plume. We stood before it at
evening when the setting sun flooded it with crimson, the bearded heads
lazily swirling under the wings of the wind, the mousing hawk dipping
into its green deeps like the eagle into the sea, and our hearts
expanded with the beauty and the mystery of it,--and back of all this
was the knowledge that its abundance meant a new carriage, an addition
to the house or a new suit of clothes.

Haying was over, and day by day we boys watched with deepening interest
while the hot sun transformed the juices of the soil into those stately
stalks. I loved to go out into the fairy forest of it, and lying there,
silent in its swaying deeps, hear the wild chickens peep and the wind
sing its subtle song over our heads. Day by day I studied the barley as
it turned yellow, first at the root and then at the neck (while the
middle joints, rank and sappy, retained their blue-green sheen), until
at last the lower leaves began to wither and the stems to stiffen in
order to uphold the daily increasing weight of the milky berries, and
then almost in an hour--lo! the edge of the field became a banded ribbon
of green and yellow, languidly waving in and out with every rush of the
breeze.

Now we got out the reaper, put the sickles in order, and father laid in
a store of provisions. Extra hands were hired, and at last, early on a
hot July morning, the boss mounted to his seat on the self-rake
"McCormick" and drove into the field. Frank rode the lead horse, four
stalwart hands and myself took "stations" behind the reaper and the
battle was on!

Reaping generally came about the 20th of July, the hottest and dryest
part of the summer, and was the most pressing work of the year. It
demanded early rising for the men, and it meant an all day broiling over
the kitchen stove for the women. Stern, incessant toil went on inside
and out from dawn till sunset, no matter how the thermometer sizzled. On
many days the mercury mounted to ninety-five in the shade, but with wide
fields all yellowing at the same moment, no one thought of laying off. A
storm might sweep it flat, or if neglected too long, it might "crinkle."

Our reaper in 1874 was a new model of the McCormick self-rake,--the
Marsh Harvester