IV 

 Hay Days and Meadow Larks 



SOMEWHERE in the distance I 

 hear a sound that drives me to 

 this — a mowing-machine cutting its 

 way through tall, waving, ripening, 

 falling grass; and I can no more resist 

 the temptation to speak about it than 

 a pig can help crawling through a 

 convenient hole under a gate into a 

 garden where all manner of green 

 things dear to porcine palates grow. 

 You may not be interested in mowers 

 or in mowing. You may not hear any- 

 thing resembling music in the song of 

 the sickle bar. It may bring to your 

 mind perhaps only thoughts of the 

 market value of the product, or the 

 high cost of harvesting. If so, turn 

 away right here, and let me browse 



[35] 



