236 SIGNS AND SEASONS 



are bent to this purpose. It is a thirty or forty 

 day war, in which the farmer and his "hands" are 

 pitted against the heat and the rain and the legions 

 of timothy and clover. Everything about it has 

 the urge, the hurry, the excitement of a battle. 

 Outside help is procured; men flock in from adjoin- 

 ing counties, where the ruling industry is something 

 else and is less imperative; coopers, blacksmiths, 

 and laborers of various kinds drop their tools, and 

 take down their scythes and go in quest of a job in 

 haying. Every man is expected to pitch his en- 

 deavors in a little higher key than at any other 

 kind of work. The wages are extra, and the work 

 must correspond. The men are in the meadow by 

 half-past four or five in the morning, and mow an 

 hour or two before breakfast. A good mower is 

 proud of his skill. He does not "lop in," and his 

 "pointing out" is perfect, and you can hardly see 

 the ribs of his swath. He stands up to his grass 

 and strikes level and sure. He will turn a double 

 down through the stoutest grass, and when the hay 

 is raked away you will not find a spear left stand- 

 ing. The Americans are — or were — the best 

 mowers. A foreigner could never quite give the 

 masterly touch. The hayfield has its code. One 

 man must not take another's swath unless he ex- 

 pects to be crowded. Each expects to take his turn 

 leading the band. The scythe may be so whetted as 

 to ring out a saucy challenge to the rest. It is not 

 good manners to mow up too close to your neigh- 

 bor, unless you are trying to keep out of the way 



