RHYTHM OF THE SCYTHE

Auckland Star, Volume LXX, Issue 35, 11 February 1939, Page 3 (Supplement)

RHYTHM OF THE SCYTHE

A FEW months ago I saw the haymaking and the crops standing straight and golden in European fields. When I got back the summer had dropped over the equator and the hay was tawny and dry here. New Zealand is busy shaving old man Earth's beard. On our sporadic farmlands all hands were at work piling up the dusty sweet-smelling grass into big comfortable stacks for the winter.

Hay is hay anywhere it seems, and it smelt just like ours when that rnusky scent came in warm waves over the little hilly fields of a Norwegian fiord. There the summer season is. short so it must be dried as quickly as possible before the white winter settles in. It is not practical to pile the hay in stooks as we do because the ground is damp, so they put little wire fences here and there on the sunny slopes and everyone lends a hand to spiea'l out bunches of hay over the wires to dry. These are 'turned and respread to get the maximum of sun and air. In many ways these people seem to have some ability to work with their natural and climatic difficulties instead of against them. In gay cottons. tow heads and golden brown skins shining, they stretch their muscles in the sun, after the cramp of winter, with the straight back and clear direct gaze of generations of hard work "and unusual independence. They combine in some happy way, the lusty life of the in the summer with an intellectual life of arts and crafts, music #nd books in the long winter.

But now, everyone is in the fields. Even in the rush of harvesting they find time to throw a stick for a gambolling puppy, toss a crowing baby into the air a moment or to pat onward the sturdy Norwegian ponies. With their feet on the soil but their heads in the clouds it is impossible not to be struck by the abounding kindness of this people and the essential sanity of their outlook. A week or so later, I saw the hay lying in swathes in South-eastern France. Wide fields, gently rolling up

ByMamie J. Sparrou)

But in Switzerland I dropped all ceremony and wallowed in the wild flowers and rolled in the hay. Just smelling its fading earthiness was not enough. Nobody seemed to care, but with a nod and a smile, they went stolidly and efficiently on with their work. Besides their pastoral work they have time to towards tl,o ATo„:„ 4. T • rri make charming costumes. They have towards the Maginot Line. The crops, time to dance on the grass, yodel and spattered with poppies, were not par- sing, and make fascinating little baubles, ticularly good and the peasants seemed c^ever attractive things, to dazzle the poor and dispirited, all working with one es tempt the pockets of the toureye on the frontier. I often waved as I 3' they keep a wary eye on passed but seldom got a smile back P reseu t. Bcfuiniin®Yn a Sl e p ning TT y bac !f When y°" see the smallness and ss w t w ESr the -y, f Z t d afte geological difficulties of their country look—nennlil Tu °be Z? U and the scattered diversity of the people must or t , i 7T ! because they you have nothing but admiration for land T n and ' but not . Wlth the the Swiss - Th ey get on with their vomVn ll .tf f 3 S 'i Uahd a . ,ld the work ' mind their own business and • II! wlthout a "y mward prosper. Their successful management cei tamty in their eyes. This part of and > method of farming is a working Jjiance was disappointing. model of skilful economy. The Ameri-

cans are always amused with these tabloid farms which rush up and down valleys, dodge here and there over the snow line and gather in a charming huddle of cottages in the valleys. There are no teeming acres here with the mechanised machinery to Jo things in a big way. No, the farmer gets along nicely, thank you, with his old ox carts, his finely bred cattle and mastery of soil fertility. With many willing hands, he can produce a peaceful country, a guardedly shrewd independent country and town population, and get a standard to the world in commercial, pastoral and Parliamentary efficiency. But I didn't bother to think of these things as I lay in the grass and got close ups of the burning blue of the gentians, little pink Alpine roses and hoards of other adorable flowers. It was a wrench to leave Switzerland.

And now a quick change over from drowsing in the sun to the farmlands of Bavaria. The country was unbelievably productive. The growing crops stretched from the very edge of the bitumen on main arterial roads to the horizon, with occasional inlets of forest or* tree There were no fences to break the fields so that every scrap of land was utilised, cut up into a patchwork of crops in every shade of green. All In The Fields The little villages were deserted for the open, not a child to wave at me as I passed or even an old man dozing in the sun! From early morning till dusk everyone was in the fields. Fat kiddies in bright cottons tumbled like puppies in the hay. Husky meu and big-boned women, with loose cotton blouse and full skirt, arms bare to the shoulders and the three-cornered hankies over their heads, parties of reapers, biking or walking to the fields, with the bare blades of their scythes glinting in *:he sun, gave us a passing "Heii." No sign of the riding-breeches-a nd - Wellingtonboots type of farmerette here o.- even a vogue of shorts or slacks. These were simple people with agrarian traditions and natures attuned to the soil and the ways of growing things. It was a fine picture of man's successful struggle for

the control of grain, ■which ended his nomadic life. The land bursting with fullness, healthy working women, quiet men and fat little children, with brilliant sunshine and cloudless skies above them —this was life on the good earth, a peaceful cycle which should never end.

But, strangely, these people had no time to stop a moment and chat. Their faces were too serious, they anxiously scanned the sky for clouds—the atmosphere was tense with effort of speeding up. They worked with dogged intensity because the Fuehrer had ordered the fields cleared and the harvest in to release the men for the putsch towards Czechoslovakia. The quickening tempo was everywhere. Tired ones must go on, work must be done, grain reaped and the hay stored for the winter, and it must be done quickly, so quickly.

This nation was putting its house in order, and nothing must hold the work back.

Officers with set face 9 raced about in open cars on urgent business in town and country. Groups of Hitler Youth marched and sang in the streets, troop detachments were inarching too, but silently. Huge convoys of sinister mili-

tarv wagons, completely covered with black canvas, held the road in front of me for miles. They were on the nation's business, and would not give way for mere tourists to pass. Once I came across some of these convoys stationary, and for fun asKed one of the poker faced drivers what they contained. He said bluntly, "Merchandise," and pointed to the labels stuck on the 6ides. These were bright coloured labels announcing "Marmalade." This was rather amusing. A load of English or Norwegians (both being inordinate marmalade eaters) must be expected at the Czech border, or else it was just a good answer. This little joke could not hide war; its grim shadow stalked across this fecund land. If it touched here those singing children would be crying in hungry fear, the women alone and the toiling haymakers gone to a rendezvous with deiath.

But the shadow stopped, the guns drew back, sullen and dumb at the frontier, and the sky cleared for a space at least. The slow tread of oxen can go quietly on, babies can still sleep in deep content in strong brown arms, and the land is still free to sing again to the rhythm of the scythe.