JUNE RAINS— HAYING— HARVEST 209 



seemed quite a McLeay settlement. Once or twice 

 I had tea in the shack — tea without milk, because 

 although he had about half a dozen milch cows he 

 never bothered to milk — and bacon of his own 

 curing, and bannock of his own baking. And for 

 me the cups and plate went through the infrequent 

 ceremony of regeneration by water. For hours 

 have I listened to his yarns, and never was an unkind 

 word spoken of friend or neighbour or stranger. He 

 is first favourite with the Jevator men, and always 

 imagines he gets a pull with them in grade and 

 price, but on that point I have my doubts. 



So on the second Sunday in August John McLeay 

 and Lorna, his faithful dog, came along the trail to 

 inspect the crops. As usual his judgment was 

 flattering. 



" It's the finest stubble crop in these parts, I 

 guess, and you'll be getting a great harvest. But 

 say now, dinna be in a hurry to cut. You should 

 be a good eight days behind me with the binder, 

 and I'll not be cutting till next Thursday." 



He took his drink of milk, which is the only form 

 of hospitality which we can persuade him to accept, 

 and when he had rested awhile and the sun was 

 going west he got on to the trail again. 



" So-long," said he as we parted at the gate. 

 " I guess I'll go and have a look at your breaking, 

 and get home by Danny's. Maybe I'll be seeing 

 you again before the binder gets to work." 



On August 17 Roddy McMahon took the binder 

 into the wheat, and my brother and I did our best 

 to keep up with it as stookers. None but those 

 who have followed the binder day after day can 

 realize the monotony of this labour of stooking. 



o 



