HARVEST. 



275 



the jug, and the hours spent in lying among the 

 sheaves at rest. There is more poetry in the old- 

 fashioned ways, in the rasp of the sweeping cradle, 

 the sheaves bound together with handfuls of the same 

 wheat straw, the curved hand sickle hook, the swish 

 and delicate tang of the scythe as it slips through the 

 tall grass. 



That Is a pleasant glimpse of old-time custom which 



CRADMN'C WHEAT. 



Alice Cary has left to us, in her poem entitled "Harvest 

 Time," In this opening stanza: 



"God's blessing on the reapers! all day long 



A quiet sense of peace my spirit fills, 



As whistled fragments of vmtutored song 



Blend with the rush of sickles on the hills'. 

 And the blue wild-flowers and green briar-leaves 

 Are brightly tangled with the yellow sheaves." 



