IQ5 



hold edge, and muscles are warm and sup- 

 ple for a race. " All good men follow me," 

 he shouts over his shoulder, whirling his 

 bright blade through the bending grain with 

 the speed and force of some mighty engine. 

 The good men are not slow to follow. With 

 straining muscle, with panting breath, they 

 surge forward. The air is alive with the 

 glimmer of steel ; grain falls as before a 

 whirlwind. The day is white-hot unbear- 

 ably so to an idler, but grateful and life- 

 giving to workers bathed in perspiration 

 from head to heel. 



When the farm-bell rings dinner-time the 

 square is almost done, and there are rab- 

 bits galore in its small remnant. Wheat is 

 Molly Cottontail's chosen summer ambush. 

 With her children she has run in and in from 

 the flash of steel, little dreaming that they 

 will be left no abiding- place, no stalks of 

 refuge. Swish ! swish ! swish ! in ceaseless 

 round now go the gleaming blades. One 

 drops out, another, another, from the swiftly 

 narrowing space. It is but a thin fringe 

 now, with a dozen small, frightened, puny 

 things darting hither and yon through it. 

 The last swath falls. There is a wild, exult- 

 ant whoop, a sudden scurry of feet, the leap- 

 ing of poor Cottontail towards all quarters 



