Songs of the Fields 



birds, and the river whispers their lullaby, the oat 

 field is the most beautiful on God's footstool, and 

 it is alive with musicians. 



A few days later, when blue tints give place 

 to the gold of approaching ripeness, it is lovely 

 in a warm, mellow way. Because there is unlim- The 

 ited sameness in a field of growing grain a pho- Son g f 



the Sheaves 



tographic study of it is not pleasing. Ihe time 

 to reproduce it is when the cutting is over and 

 the harvest stands in shocks, from the canopy of 

 which crickets sing, a million in unison. Locusts 

 hum in the big trees, wild doves coo from the 

 thicket across the river, the clacking reaper rattles 

 a rhythmic accompaniment, and my partners, 

 bending over the sheaves, touch the scene with 

 life and color. I never see harvesters cutting 

 grain that I do not think of a command uttered 

 by Moses three thousand years ago: "And when 

 ye reap the harvest of your land, thou shalt not 

 wholly reap the corners of thy field, neither shalt 

 thou gather the gleanings of the harvest." Moses 

 intended these gleanings to remain for the "poor 

 and the stranger." In my country gleanings fall 

 to the birds, since these fields know neither the 

 poor nor the stranger. Harvesting scenes are so 

 touched with life, music, and color that they al- 

 ways have been great favorites with artists and 

 poets. The most vivid shirt of a workman or 

 the red 'kerchief knotted around his throat is not 

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