University of Virginia Library

HARVEST MUSINGS.

Who can help falling into a reverie at the decline of a sultry
summer day? Who can pass unnoticed the delicious changes in
the light and in the air; the orange tints darkening into purple,
and the hot breath of Day freshened by the soft-falling dew?
The whip-poor-wills “striving one with the other which could in
most dainty variety recount their wrong-caused sorrow,”[1] fill the
woods with their plaints; the harvest-moon rises in the blue depths
of ether, globular to the sight, not merely round; and of a deep
golden orange colour, like—like—Jerry Dingle says it is like “the
yelk of an egg that's been froze, and then dropt into a great tub
o' bluin'-water.” Not so very unlike, good Jerry, as mine own
observation witnesseth at this moment; and so, in the barrenness
of our own sun-burnt and wilted fancy, we will let thy homely
comparison stand for want of a better.

How still is this evening atmosphere! The breeze is not yet
strong enough to wave the curtain; it only stirs it, as with an expectant
thrill! Would it might come! with force sufficient to
drive away some of these musquitoes, whose attacks are enough to
put to flight all romantic thoughts except those of boarding-school
girls and midshipmen. The night-hawks are very busy; they
have scented our broods of young turkeys; and there are owls
enough hooting and flying about, to “scare” any body that was
not “born in the woods.” The cows come lowing home, bringing
with them a circumambient cloud of musquitoes, to “spell” those
which have exhausted their energies upon us. One lone and lorn
individual of the horned people stays mourning in the forest;
probably calling with fruitless iteration upon her tender offspring,

doomed to the knife at this season of “boarding hands.” The
katydids are high in their eternal disputation; and somewhere
within hearing, though out of sight, is Jerry Dingle, with a rifle,
getting his cradle ready for to-morrow.

Oh, mystery of mysteries were once these dark sayings to my
uninitiated ear! Why should a “rifle” be needed for reaping, since though grain shoots, nobody every heard of its being shot?
And the “cradle?” Wheat waves, but why should it be rocked?
Wild music called me once to the gate, and there stood Jerry
with a whetstone sharpening a scythe, which had several slender
rods arranged parallel with its curved blade, and now the riddle
was read. But I have never learned to this day why a whetstone
should be called a “rifle,” while there is so different an implement
of the same name so much in use among us. The
“cradle” seems more intelligible, because the pretty slender
curved bars which help to lay the grain in regular rows as fast
as it is cut, do bear some little resemblance to the form of
rockers.

The operation of cradling is worth a journey to see. The
sickle may be more classical, but it cannot compare in beauty
with the swaying, regular motion of the cradle, which cuts at
once a space as wide as strong arms, aided by a long blade, can
describe; and at the same time lays the golden treasure in beautiful
lines, like well-ordered hosts in array of battle. There is
no movement more graceful and harmonious than that of a row
of cradlers; none on which one can gaze by the hour with more
pleasure. It suggests the idea of soft music—siciliano or gracioso.

The subject of the weather, always so valuable a resource in
the way of conversation, is never more prominent than during
the harvest time. Saving and excepting new year's day, when
the beaux are apt to be, as Mr. C. said, “hard up for talk,” and
some few bitter days in February, when tingling fingers and
crimson noses remind one inevitably of the state of the atmosphere,
there is indeed no period when the weather is so universally
the theme for young and old, rich and poor. In town this
subjection to the skyey influences wears one aspect, in the country
another. There is no part of the year when the difference
between city and country views and habits is more striking.

Those who have brought city habits with them to this green and
growing world, and who naturally look back very frequently with
feelings of affectionate reminiscence to the roasting brick houses
and the broiling flag pavements which helped to ripen their earlier
summers, are particularly alive to the change in their location
and circumstances when this time comes round. How the citizen
labours to be cool! How pathetically he descants on each particular
stage of sweltering! How do magazines and dailies teem
with articles which only to read bring the drops to one's forehead!
What listless hours! what groans, what fans, what lemonade,
what ice-cream, are associated in civic minds with the
idea of the dog-days! What racing to springs and watering-places,
what crowding in ferry-boats and rail-road cars, attest the
anxiety of the urbane world for a breath of cool air! Recreation
has become a serious business; amusement a solemn duty;
for who can work in such weather? At Saratoga or the Falls,
at Rockaway or Nahant, strenuous Idleness has but one aim—the
killing of the sultry hours; and nobody will deny, that after all,
the hours sometimes die hard.

We too labour to be cool, but it is after another sort. The
citizen who finds it difficult to sustain life at this season, even
with the aid of baths and ices, may be curious to know how the
wretched being whom necessity forces to labour under the sun of
August, endures the burden of existence; how often he seeks the
cooling shade; what drinks moisten his parched throat; by what
means he contrives to fan his burning brow. Fear nothing, oh!
sympathizing reader! Save thy sensibilities for a more urgent
call. This is a world of compensations. The labourer has
neither shade, nor punkah, nor lemonade, nor even ginger-beer.
He may get a drink of buttermilk occasionally; but the sparkling,
ice-cold spring supplies his best beverage; and in place of
all thy luxuries he lives from sunrise till sunset in a perpetual
vapour-bath, of Nature's own providing; more refreshing by far
than even the famed solace of the Turk; and he does his own
shampooing so well that every power of his frame is kept incessantly
in the very best condition. He would die on thy sofa.

Yes! in the country all is activity and bustle, at the very time
when the seekers of pleasure are at their wit's end for pastime.

It is the era not only from which, but toward which all reckon for
weeks. “I can't undertake it afore harvest.” “Well, I'll see
about it after harvest.” “Wait till we know how the harvest turns
out.” Does wife or daughter long for a new dress? “I'd rather
give you two after harvest.” Is a jaunt in question? The
grain must be secured before it is talked of. Is a man “under the
harrows,” that is, hard pressed by his creditors? He begs only
for a delay till after harvest. Not that all things turn out always
according to the expectations of these sanguine calculators.
But with the husbandman this time is the boundary of his immediate
hope—his mental sensible horizon—the natural limit of his
view. Hope, it is true, is in this as in other cases, often delusive
enough; but the return of the season affords many a peg on
which to hang bright promises that cheer from afar the weary
way of the farmer.

When it comes, as we have said, all is activity and bustle. All
energies are concentrated upon it, and every thing gives way to
it. Politics for a time let go their hold upon the rustic partisan.
He cares not for vetoes, nor even for tariffs; bad legislation
stays not the ripening of corn; (fortunately for us all.) When
the beneficent Sun has done his work, and wheat nods its brown
head and sways languidly in the faint breath of the morning;
when corn flings its silken banners abroad, and the earth seems
every where burdened with Heaven's bounty; at this glorious
season the farmer, with his heart and his arm nerved by hope,
goes forth to put the finishing stroke to the year's labours. No
fear of the sun's fervours deters or disheartens him. He fears
only the delicious cooling shower which would drive his “hands”
to the barn, and perhaps detain his grain on the ground long
enough materially to injure its quality.

To be early in the field is the farmer's maxim. He waits only
for light enough to work by, before calling up his men, who are
apt to be up before he calls them, so contagious is the enthusiasm
of the hour. No one likes to be a laggard in harvest. And then
the early morning air is so fresh and so inspiriting; the brightening
hues of the pearly East so irresistibly glorious, the rising of
the sun so majestic, that even the dull soul feels, and the dull eye
gazes, with an admiration not unmixed with awe. Two hours'

labour before the six o'clock breakfast lays bare a wide space in
the field, for very numerous are the strong arms brought up to the
work. This season is the test of the husbandman's capabilities,
whether as master or man. The unthrifty is behindhand in his
preparations. He has depended upon luck for his assistants, and
put off looking for or engaging them until the last moment.
Luck, as usual, takes care of those who take care of themselves,
and so neighbour Feckless is obliged to take up with the leavings.
When it is time to begin, scythes want sharpening and rifles are
worn out or lost, and perhaps a ride of ten miles is necessary to
repair the deficiency. Before harvest is half over, the stock of
provisions proves scanty, and half a day must be spent in borrowing
of the neighbours. With all these and many more drawbacks,
the work goes on but slowly, and the crop is perhaps not
properly secured in season. Wheat will become so dead ripe
that much is lost in the gathering, or perhaps successive rains,
when it ought to be under cover, will rust and ruin it entirely.
Neighbour Feckless has of course no barn; (in the new country
better farmers cannot always afford one;) and being obliged to
put up his grain in a hurry, it is perhaps not sufficiently dried, or
not well stacked; in which case every grain will sprout and
grow in such a way that the entire mass becomes one body of
shoots, so that it must be torn apart, and is only fit to feed the
cattle with. “Bad luck!” sighs our poor friend.

Far otherwise runs the experience of the thriving farmer. All
is ready betimes, and due allowance made for lee-way and “peradventures.”
He is not obliged to overwork himself or his people.
He goes forward in his own business in order to insure its
success. It is proverbial in the country that “Come, boys!” is
always better than “Go, boys!” Neighbour Thrifty knows this
so well that if he be not in the freshness of his strength, so that
he can take the lead in mowing or reaping, he will yet engage in
some part of the day's labours, which will keep him in the midst
of his men, so that the influence of his eye and of his voice may
be felt, without his incurring the odious suspicion of being a
mere overseer or task-master. And what a various congregation
is that which does his bidding! Not mere day-labourers—for the
country furnishes comparatively few of these—but all men of all

kinds. Do you want your wagon-wheel mended? The wheelwright,
if he have no fields of his own, is busy in those of his
neighbour. The carpenter will not drive a nail for love or money,
for he too is “bespoke.” You are unlucky if your nag
need shoeing at this critical period, for the son of Vulcan will
not have time to light a fire in his own smithy, perhaps for a
fortnight. Peep into the village school-house; you will find
none there but minors, in a very literal sense; wee things who
would be only in the way at home. All boys who are old enough
to rake or run on errands are sure to be in the field, and the girls
are helping at home to boil and bake. The interests of learning
have for the time the go-by. This is so well understood that in
most places the master abdicates for the season in favour of the
female sovereign, again to resume the sceptre when Winter
grasps his.

Stranger than all, even law-suits are suspended, for the justice
is in the field; witnesses are swinging the cradle; all possible
jurymen are scattered miles apart, mowing the broad savannahs;
and the contending parties themselves are too much engrossed,
each with his own business, to wish matters pushed to extremities
at such a crisis. Even the young lover almost forgets the flaxen
ringlets of his sweetheart in the bustle of a field-day, and if he
meet the damsel at evening will be apt to entertain her with an
account of his achievements with the cradle or the sickle. Idleness
is banished so completely that even the incurably lazy bustle
about as if they too wished to do something. It is amusing to
see one of this class at this juncture. In the general rush of business
and consequent scarcity of strong arms, he knows that
even his aid is of consequence. Feeling this to be emphatically
his day, he is disposed to make the most of it. He accordingly
assumes a swaggering air; don't know whether he'll come or
not: but, on the whole, guesses he'll help! He braces up for
the occasion, lays by his rifle and his fishing-tackle, and like a
spinning-top whirls round bravely for a while, but if not now and
then lashed into speed by some new motive, soon subsides into
his natural state of repose. We have known a worthy of this
tone promise to “help” four different farmers, and after all, take

down his rifle and “guess he'd better go and try if he couldn't
see a deer!”

The good woman within doors is far from being idle all this
time. Hers is the pleasant though rather arduous task of keeping
the harvesters in heart for the labours of the day, and for this
purpose she summons all her skill and forethought, and sets forth
all her good cheer. Pies and cake and all manner of rustic
dainties grace her bounteous board; for her reputation is at stake,
since she is supposed at this time to do her very best. To set a
poor table at harvest is death to any housewifely reputation. Good
humour too is very desirable, where work is to be done; and to
this we all know good cheer is apt to contribute; and no mistress
likes to see her table surrounded by sour faces, even if
the work should go on as well as ever. The providing for a
dozen or two of harvest-hands is not a matter of any especial research;
since although, as we have hinted, some delicacies are
always included, yet the main body of the meal, three times a
day, is formed of pork and hot bread. Where these are abundant,
(and no Western farmer need lack either,) the adjuncts are
matter of small moment. Pork and hot bread three times a day!
No wonder they can work twelve hours out of the twenty-four.
To labour any less on such diet would be suicide.

One of the pretty sights of these days is the passing of the
huge loads of grain and hay as they are brought home to their
several owners. There are generally three or four men and
boys on the top of each load, chattering merrily, urging on the
cattle, and evincing in their tones and gestures a glad sense of
bustle and importance which is quite infectious. One cannot
help watching them as they toss and stack their graceful burdens,
and sympathizing in their merry laughter, and almost envying
them their light-hearted jocularity. By and by the wagon passes
again, a mere frame, with a man or boy at every stake, holding
on for life, and laughing and talking louder than ever, since the
speed is tenfold and the jolting in proportion. The gradual completion
of a stack and the final pointing out and thatching which
is to secure all within from the weather, is an operation in which
we often find amusement by the hour.

The harvest-moon is a phenomenon which can hardly be passed

over, in thinking of this season. As if to cheer and aid the husbandman
on whose apparently humble labours the comfort, the
very existence of the proudest is absolutely dependant, the moon
shows her glowing face at nearly the same hour for a whole
week, lengthening out the day with some hours of refreshing
coolness. The surpassing beauty of her mild light can be fully
appreciated only after a day of heat and dust and exertion. In
the country, in the true wild forest, and after the labours of the
harvest field, it has an ineffable charm. We will not call the
harvest-moon a miracle, for astronomers explain her constancy;
but we will say that a phenomenon so admirably adapted to the
consolation and refreshment of the weary tiller of the soil, seems
to refer us directly to the divine benignity, which disdains not to
watch over the comforts as well as the necessities of all.

Would I might add to this sketch of the labours of the harvest,
that we do honour to its close by some innocent festivities like
those which used to be known under the name of harvest-home.
But alas! our holydays are only political; election days, when it
is our business to vote, and “Independence,” when it is our business
to rejoice. We have no days consecrated to innocent hilarity;
no days of the feast of in-gathering, over which harmless
Sport may preside, gladdening at once the heart of young and
old, and strengthening the links of human sympathy. But
this is a work-a-day world, and we are a working people.
Granted; yet we should work no whit the less for an occasional
interval of gayety. But there's “Thanksgiving”—true; and
good as far as it goes. It is a family gathering; a set season for
the meeting of near friends, and renewing of all thoughts of affectionate
interest. In this new world we have scarcely begun
to pay respect to this occasion: the custom is regarded partly as
sectional, partly as inappropriate; for our family-friends, where
are they? With our joy there would mingle a touch of sadness.
We could not rejoice in thinking of the absent.

Are we wiser than our forefathers?—those of the olden time,
when it was supposed there was a time for merry-making, among
other good things in this world? Were the feast of harvest and
the feast of in-gathering, which were ordained to the Jews by the
highest authority, purely ceremonial? Imperative obligation is

allowed to attach to the command, “Six days shalt thou labour,
and on the seventh thou shalt rest.” Is no weight whatever to be
given to that which immediately follows: “Thou shalt keep the
feast of harvest, the first-fruits of thy labours... and the
feast of in-gathering, which is in the end of the year?” A plain
reader may reasonably be puzzled by the very great stress we
lay upon the one, and the absolute neglect with which we treat
the other. It is true we know but little of the especial form of
these festivals, but we know that rejoicing made a part of them,
and that the joy was heightened by feasting and music. Not only
were these permitted, but commanded; only the revelry which attended
them, when manners became corrupt, was condemned.
Has the nature of man so changed that all this has now become
unsuitable? Does he really eschew pleasures, or have his
pleasures assumed a darker character?