232 THE FAT OF THE LAND 
over the crook in his elbow and listens to the 
gurgle of the home-made ginger ale as it changes 
from jug to throat. There may be joys in other 
drinks, but for solid comfort and refreshment give 
me a July hay-field at 3 p.M., a jug of water at 
forty-eight degrees, with just the amount of 
molasses, vinegar, and ginger that is Polly’s secret, 
and I will give cards and spades to the broadest 
goblet of bubbles that was ever poured, and beat 
it to a standstill. Add to this a blond head 
under a broad hat, a thin white gown, such as 
grasshoppers love, and you can see why the 
emptying of the jug was a satisfying function 
in our field; for Jane was the one who presided 
at these afternoon teas. Often Jane was not 
alone; Florence or Jessie, or both, or others, 
made hay while the sun shone in those July days, 
and many a load went to the barn capped with 
white and laughter. The young people decided 
that a hay farm would be ideal—no end better 
than a factory farm —and advised me to put all 
the land into timothy and clover. I was not too 
old to see the beauties of haying-time, with such 
voluntary labor; but I was too old and too much 
interested with my experiment to be cajoled by 
a lot of youngsters. I promised them a week of 
haying in each fifty-two, but that was all the 
concession I would make. Laura said :— 
« We are commanded to make hay while the 
sun shines; and the sun always shines at Four 
Oaks, for me.” 
