108 Old Bays on the Farm 



or rake hay in a stumpy field wi' an old-fashioned 

 hand-rake. If ye had I'm thinkin' ye'd call the 

 poet a leein' wretch an' the painter a barn fule 

 for fleein' into raptures about makin' hay." 



''But surely," said I, "you have not entirely 

 put out of your memory the sound of the singing 

 scythe as it made musical rhythm in the blooming 

 clover, the joyous song of that blathering, breezy 

 blatherskite, the boisterous bob-o'-link, and the 

 merry laughter of the sun-browned lads and 

 lasses who sometimes tossed and raked the 

 hay." 



"Ay, mon," said he, "but I could show you the 

 other side o' the picture. You see, you chaps that 

 never grippet the han'les o' a scythe and swished 

 an' swished an' swished a' day, an' broiled, an' 

 sweated an' ached, are no qualified to give a proper 

 opeenion on the subject. 'Singin' o' the scythe,' 

 'musical rhythm,' nicely worded phrases they are, 

 but the man that handled the scythe never made 

 them up. They came fra' the chap that may- 

 be carried water and then sat down under the 

 tree and watched the clover an' the sweat 

 fall." 



He had me coming and going but in defiance 

 of his cold, hard-hearted presentation of facts, I 

 want to go on thinking of that old-time hayfield 

 from the sentimental point of view. 



Fifty years ago when a farmer would decide on 

 cutting his hay he 'd say : ' ' Boys, get those scythes 

 down from the granary and bring them and a 



