in haymaking, and in driving
the cows to and from the pasture, I planted myself there, and whatever
comes back to me now from that source is honestly my own. The second
crop which I gather is not much more tangible than that which the poet
gathers, but the farmer as little suspects its existence as he does that
of the poet. I can use what he would gladly reject. His daisies, his
buttercups, his orange hawkweed, his yarrow, his meadow-rue, serve my
purpose better than they do his. They look better on the printed page
than they do in the haymow. Yes, and his timothy and clover have their
literary uses, and his new-mown hay may perfume a line in poetry. When
one of our poets writes, "wild carrot blooms nod round his quiet bed,"
he makes better use of this weed than the farmers can.

Certainly a midsummer day in the country, with all its sights and
sounds, its singing birds, its skimming swallows, its grazing or
ruminating cattle, its drifting cloud-shadows, its grassy perfumes from
the meadows and the hillsides, and the farmer with his men and teams
busy with the harvest, has material for the literary artist. A good hay
day is a good day for the writer and the poet, because it has a certain
crispness and pureness; it is positive; it is rich in sunshine; there is
a potency in the blue sky which you feel; the high barometer raises your
spirits; your thoughts ripen as the hay cures. You can sit in a circle
of shade beneath a tree in the fields, or in front of the open hay-barn
doors, as I do, and feel the fruition and satisfaction of nature all
about you. The brimming meadows seem fairly to purr as the breezes
stroke them; the trees rustle their myriad leaves as if in gladness; the
many-colored butterflies dance by; the steel blue of the swallows' backs
glistens in the sun as they skim the fields; and the mellow boom of the
passing bumble-bee but enhances the sense of repose and contentment that
pervades the air. The hay cures; the oats and corn deepen their hue; the
delicious fragrance of the last wild strawberries is on the breeze; your
mental skies are lucid, and life has the midsummer fullness and charm.

As I linger here I note the oft-repeated song of the scarlet tanager in
the maple woods that crown a hill above me, and in the loft overhead two
broods of swallows are chattering and lining up their light-colored
breasts on the rims of their nests, or trying their newly fledged wings
while clinging to its sides. The only