THE DAYS THAT WERE.

Otago Witness, Issue 2923, 23 March 1910, Page 83

THE DAYS THAT WERE.

'i^i< : By Shasta.

111. THE GATHERING IN OF THE HARVEST. ■ "The engine beats end the combine sings to the,drays that are leading in, For they're threshing out of the stook tonight, and the rdain is as bright as day. And the fork-tunes flash as the sheaves are turned on the frame of the one-horse dray." "When the corn in the fields stand white for the harvest, and with a rattle, a caltter. and .a- crying; >f "Whoa, Bess! Steady, Nugget!" the binder starts on its first round, ■ then indeed does the farmer feel that there in scmsthing in farming after all. A gentle breeze sets the heavy-headed wheat rippling in grey and golden waves from hedge to hedge, and the white-hearted grains are ready to fall from their setting. Then the *aitli»g huir of the binder is heard in therein lands. The work goes steadily forward, the machine stopping only to oil up 01 jhange horses, while the sto-okers follow lound and round the fields, setting up the sheavss in stooks. The farm children—girls in prini frocks -and sunbonnets, boys revelling in freedom from ooats and collars — trudge UP and down the dusty road many times daily, carrying lunches, all earnestly assisting in the levelling to earth of the ripened graia, . for all share the farmer's dread cA a devastating jior'rwester coming to lay waste the fruitful fields. Wondrous days are those soent in the harvest fields' \What joy to awaken in the chill earlv morning, to .steal out and meet father and" mother, who look at you chidingly, but let you breakfast in haste and silence, for there is 30 much to do before the moon shall rise, a great golden sovereign, to reign over the harvest fields at evening time You go quietly, hand in hand, down to the stable and hear the steady crunching sound of many horses feeding. Tim:, the stableman, greets you with a cheery, "Hel'o. kids. What are you doing up so early?" You feel kind of hushed and quiet as you watch Tim going from stall to fctall brushing down the horses and buckling on their harness. Then father' conies, rfnd the first team goes out to the harvest: field, and you go down to the 40-acre paddock for the cows. The clover heads lie heavy with dew, and the grass feels queer and wet on your bare feet. You feel strangn and eerie because everything is so .*r«Vsh and. still and beautiful. Then you hear the bum of the binders at r;ork and a lark singing her morning: song, and vou so down the road thinking- the »ae-old thoughts that will thrill youthful minds so long as there is ft boy left to. thistle down 9. country road or a girl to bring in the cows on e. suaims morning. You find mother in the cool stone dairv skimming the milk, and after you have had some cream yon rjlay about till mother cpll- - to take the lunch out to the twdrV-nk. When the threshing mill comes, with what

feelings of wonder you follow the dingy black engine and red mill out to the -paddock. When they are aet up and all the wheels going "clickety-clack," the loads of wheat begin to coma in. The man on the dray forks the sheaves up to the feeders, and by-and-bye the itraw goes tumbling up the elevators and the bright grain drops into the bags. Then father tells you it is near lunch time, and you go home and help mother and Aunt Clara to butter hot scones and pack piles and piles of cakes and scones into the baskets, and then you all go back to the paddock carrying the lunch things. Mother smiles and tells you the basket will be lighter coming home, so you cross the stubble as quickly as you can, for harvest men are very hungry. Father says "Lunch oh!" and the driver blows the whistle. The men come cumbering round, Joking and laughing as they eat, and you whisper to each other how black the driver is and how dusty poor "Chaffie" looks. Very soon the whistle blows, and then all straighten up and go back to work. ' You wander about for a while in everybody's wav, thinking you are helping, till mother calls you, and you go home lightly laden. You help mother all you can, and then after tea vor go upstairs tolled, "to be out of the svay when the men come in," Aunt Clara says. Por a little while you lie awake and watch the big harvest moon come up and hang itself a great lantern in the sky. You listen to the drays rattling up the read and the hum of men'3 voices, and then you go to sleen and dream of all the sunny days to come before father counts up his wheat bags and says, "Harvest is over for another year." In all the lustrous web of memorv's weaving are there any brighter strands th>n those culled from joyous hours in autumn fields?