OLD HOMESTEAD 



cracked his whip and sang out to the teams. To me it was a po- 

 sition much to be desired, even more to be envied than any I 

 knew of, except that of a stage-driver. 



The cylinder and concave, with teeth through and between 

 which the grain was fed, was a coarse affair, but answered its ob- 

 ject very well. No separator or cleaner was attached. A man 

 stood behind the cylinder as the thrashed straw was cut and 

 mangled by the ugly teeth of the rapidly revolving cylinder, 

 with chaff, dust and smut coming through in great puffs and 

 striking the floor at his feet. With a swiftly moving rake he 

 separated the straw, which was passed to another, who pitched 

 it farther back. Others carried it to a stack outside or helped 

 to dispose of it promptly in some way. As the grain accumu- 

 lated it was raked back and thrown into a corner of the barn 

 floor, to be cleaned up later. 



It was nasty, choking, disagreeable work. One's face would 

 soon look like that of a negro, and his eyes and nose were 

 fairly closed with dust, dirt and sweat, but there was no let up. 

 The bundles were thrown down from above and the band cut 

 with a slash of a long, sharp knife and passed to the feeder, 

 who run them in, bundle after bundle. Loose grain was pitched 

 onto the platform beside the feeder, who shoved and pushed it 

 into the cylinder as rapidly as the power would permit. There 

 was no chance to shirk. Every one had to do his part and keep 

 up. Notwithstanding my boyish admiration for the driver, the 

 feeder was the master of the situation. When he turned round, 

 raised his leather-mittened hand and shook it, the horses slowed 

 up and stopped. No other supreme authority was recognized 

 in the barn. 



It required a big gang to work one of these machines, and 

 between the horses and the men required to run it, they would 



85 



