Stumps and Snake-fences 107 



I love to recall memory's picture of three or 

 four strong men with scythes amputating grass 

 and stirring up bumble-bees at every swish. There 

 is no smell, lotus flowers from the Old Nile, 

 attar of roses from Ispahan, or any decoction of 

 sweet perfumes that those chaps who deal in herbs 

 can stir up, that equals the aroma that came from 

 an old-time hayfield. Likely the scythes shook it 

 loose more than the mowing machine does. 



I wasn't old enough to swing a scythe with effect 

 but I used to carry water in a cool grey jug with 

 clover leaves clinging to its sweating sides and I 

 wish to remark that there were other things be- 

 side that grey jug sweating in the haj'^eld. 

 Those sturdy scythe-swingers did perspire at their 

 work and occasionally they would stir up a bees' 

 nest on the sod or a colony of yellow-jackets about 

 a stump. 



An old-time hayfield is, indeed, a theme to grow 

 poetical and sentimental about. But, alas, the 

 rattle of the mowing machine and the automatic 

 action of the side delivery rake and hay-loading 

 outfit has side-tracked the poet and the painter. 



A NON-POETICAL OLD FARMER 



Just the other day I talked to a grizzled Scot- 

 tish Canuck in poetic vein about the hayfield of 

 the pioneer and he came back at me thus : 



**Ay, mon, but you're very glib wi' the bonny 

 words but, might I ask, did ever ye swing a scythe 



