in the meadow by half-past four or five in the morning, and mow an
hour or two before breakfast. A good mower is proud of his skill. He
does not "lop in," and his "pointing out" is perfect, and you can
hardly see the ribs of his swath. He stands up to his grass and
strikes level and sure. He will turn a double down through the
stoutest grass, and when the hay is raked away you will not find a
spear left standing. The Americans are--or were--the best mowers. A
foreigner could never quite give the masterly touch. The hayfield
has its code. One man must not take another's swath unless he
expects to be crowded. Each expects to take his turn leading the
band. The scythe may be so whetted as to ring out a saucy challenge
to the rest. It is not good manners to mow up too close to your
neighbor, unless you are trying to keep out of the way of the man
behind you. Many a race has been brought on by some one being a
little indiscreet in this respect. Two men may mow all day together
under the impression that each is trying to put the other through.
The one that leads strikes out briskly, and the other, not to be
outdone, follows close. Thus the blood of each is soon up; a little
heat begets more heat, and it is fairly a race before long. It is a
great ignominy to be mowed out of your swath. Hay-gathering is
clean, manly work all through. Young fellows work in haying who do
not do another stroke on the farm the whole year. It is a gymnasium
in the meadows and under the summer sky. How full of pictures,
too!--the smooth slopes dotted with cocks with lengthening shadows;
the great, broad-backed, soft-cheeked loads, moving along the lanes
and brushing under the trees; the unfinished stacks with forkfuls of
hay being handed up its sides to the builder, and when finished the
shape of a great pear, with a pole in the top for the stem. Maybe in
the fall and winter the calves and yearlings will hover around it
and gnaw its base until it overhangs them and shelters them from