easily now backward the curving blade and then forward in a cutting
sweep, clean and swift, laying the even swath. Alas! the clattering
machine-knives have driven off from our hay-fields the mower's art with
all its rhythmic grace.

Those were days when men were famous according as they could "cut off
the heels of a rival mower." There are that grieve that, one by one,
from field and from forest, are banished those ancient arts of daily
toil by which men were wont to prove their might, their skill of hand
and eye, their invincible endurance. But there still offer in life's
stern daily fight full opportunity to prove manhood in ways less
picturesque perhaps, but no less truly testing.

Down the swath came Barney, his sinewy body swinging in very poetry of
motion.

"Doesn't he do it well!" said the girl, following with admiring eyes
every movement of his well-poised frame. "How big he is! Why--" and her
blue eyes widened with startled surprise, "he's almost a man!" The tint
of the thistle bloom deepened in her cheek. She glanced down and made
as if to spring to the ground; then settling herself resolutely back
against her fence stake, she exclaimed, "Pshaw! I don't care. He is just
a boy. Anyway, I'm not going to mind Barney Boyle."

On came the mower in mighty sweeps, cutting the swath clean out to the
end.

"Well done!" cried the girl. "You'll be cutting off Long John's heels in
a year or so."