THE OUTDOOR WORLD 



59 



Then it was springtime and the music 

 was sweet and sharp like that of the 

 earliest "peepers." Now the lights and 

 sounds have become mellowed by the 

 age of the day. How quiet and sub- 

 dued is that indescribable murmur of 

 the rakes as they toss the crisp hay. 

 Fred has won his laurels; his claim is 

 undisputed, and he rakes with the man- 

 ner of one who in late years enjoys 

 vast possessions. And who shall envy? 

 He has earned what he has. Uncle 

 Dan has grown older, his beard is 

 whiter, his movements are less youth- 

 ful than in the morning. He offers Joe 

 no sparring match. He is more retro- 

 spective, as those grown almost a day 

 older are apt to be. He told of his hay- 

 ing experiences in the long distant 

 morning of his life. He even confided 

 to the boy a reminiscence of one great 

 fishing day. when it rained in the midst 

 of haying time. As he enlarged and 

 became enthusiastic on how he "took 

 them in," he seemed to be in the spirit 

 of the field. One could almost see, or 

 at least almost feel the comparison of 



long windrows and great haycocks of 

 fish! * * * * * 



"Get the oxen, boy; we'll be ready 

 by the time you get here." The oxen 

 and the hay cart were in the shade 

 of the big elm, for who ever saw a hay- 

 field that was really worth while that 

 did not have a big elm, usually about 

 one third of the way across from "the 

 bars." What poetry of motion in the 

 graceful curves of those forkfuls of 

 hay as they moved upward! There 

 was pride in "keeping up" with the 

 fork. "Don't get behind; if you do it 

 is hard to catch up. You see you don't 

 have the help of the fork then ; you 

 have to do it all with the rake." Keep 

 up with the fork. Your own little 

 scratching rake cannot do it all. It is 

 the fork that does things by the whole- 

 sale and in a masterly manner; — keep 

 up with the fork ! 



Would artist or photographer por- 

 tray the winding country road at its 

 best, he waits until the load of hay 

 goes home. It is the fullness of all 

 things ; it is the fruition of the turning 



HORSES MAY BE QUICKER BUT SEEM NOT SO FITTING. 

 Photograph by James Victor Feather, Huntington, New York. 



