Ed, with a swift understanding of the driver's trick, flung out his
left hand and caught the end-gate, threw his fork in, and leaped
after it. Will walked on, disdaining attempt to catch the wagon. On
all sides now the wagons of the plowmen or threshers were getting
out into the fields, with a pounding, rumbling sound.

The pale red sun was shooting light through the leaves, and
warming the boles of the great oaks that stood in the yard, and
melting the frost off the great gaudy threshing machine that stood
between the stacks. The interest, picturesqueness of it all got hold
of Will Hannan, accustomed to it as he was. The homes stood
about in a circle, hitched to the ends of the six sweeps, all shining
with frost.

The driver was oiling the great tarry cogwheels underneath.
Laughing fellows were wrestling about the yard. Ed Kinney had
scaled the highest stack, and stood ready to throw the first sheaf.
The sun, lighting him where he stood, made his fork handle gleam
like dull gold. Cheery words, jests, and snatches of song
everywhere. Dingman bustled about giving his orders and placing
his men, and the voice of big Dave McTurg was heard calling to
the men as they raised the long stacker into place:

"Heave-ho, there! Up she rises!"

And, best of all, Will caught a glirnpse of a smiling girl face at the
kitchen window that made the blood beat m his throat.

"Hello, Will!" was the general greeting, given with some constraint