He leans on his prong, facing to windward, and gazing straight into the
teeth of the light breeze, as he has done these forty and odd summers
past. Like the captain of a sailing ship, the eye of the master haymaker
must be always watching the horizon to windward. He depends on the sky,
like the mariner, and spreads his canvas and shapes his course by the
clouds. He must note their varying form and drift; the height and
thickness and hue; whether there is a dew in the evenings; whether the
distant hills are clearly defined or misty; and what the sunset portends.
From the signs of the sunset he learns, like the antique Roman
husbandman--

'When the south projects a stormy day,
And when the clearing north will puff the clouds away.'

According as the interpretation of the signs be favourable, adverse, or
doubtful, so he gives his orders.

This afternoon, as he stands leaning on the prong, he marks the soft air
which seems itself to be heated, and renders the shade, if you seek it for
coolness, as sultry as the open field. The flies are numerous and
busy--the horses can barely stand still, and nod their heads to shake them
off. The hills seem near, and the trees on the summit are distinctly
visible. Such noises as are heard seem exaggerated and hollow. There is
but little cloud, mere thin flecks; but the horizon has a brassy look, and
the blue of the sky is hard and opaque. Farmer George recollects that the
barometer he tapped before coming out showed a falling mercury; he does
not like these appearances, more especially the heated breeze. There is a
large quantity of hay in the meadow, much of it quite ready for carting,
indeed, the waggons are picking it up as fast as they can, and the rest,
if left spread about through next day--Sunday--would be fit on Monday.