May, 1920 A RETURN TO THE DAKOTA LAKE REGION 105 
in surprise to find one flying into a tree, as if stopping for the night on his 
way south. At this time Barn Swallows were also flying about the canes— 
now standing six feet high, topped with a soft autumnal pinkish brown brush 
—weaving in and around them as if prospecting for a roost, gathering about 
a Hawk that flew out over the edge of the lake, sweeping out over the sur- 
face of the water dipping down as if for insects; then sweeping back over 
the pasture with its soft gray aromatic sagebrush and yellow-buttoned tar 
weed, and its bright stretches of goldenrod illumined by the low western sun, 
their brown underparts glowing as they caught the light. Back and forth 
they went, down over the pasture, up across the sky, talking cheerily as they 
trooped by. A few other migrants, notably a Robin, a White-crowned Spar- 
row, and a flock each of Juncos and Yellow-rumped Warblers were seen up at 
the Grandfather’s poplar grove, about the middle of September. 
But it was not alone the birds which proclaimed that autumn was coming. 
The harvest was here. Traction engines and the long trains of their 
threshing outfits suggesting short railroad trains invaded the grain fields, 
to be cut at a rate of two hundred dollars a day, the automobile of ‘‘the boss’’ 
standing by ready for quick work in any emergency, be it to replace broken 
machinery or to exchange ‘‘fired’’ members of the threshing crew. Around 
the circle of the horizon, lines of smoke recorded the progress of the harvest- 
ing; while at night the fires of burning straw stacks seen north, south, east, 
and west gave new emphasis to the level horizon of the prairie. Nearer at 
hand, the smell of the burning straw pleased the nostrils, and the flaming 
and red-smoldering forms of the stacks delighted the eyes; though it was 
difficult for me to be reconciled to the enermous economic waste of their con- 
flagration. At times the red light of a burning stack would be reflected in 
the lake, and sometimes one would give a supplementary touch of color to 
the red afterglow of sunset. 
When the threshing outfit arrived at the Grandfather’s farm, as no cook 
car was included, we all went up to help with the work, the son of three 
weeks riding in a clothes basket in the front of the wagon while dishes and 
supplies filled the back. When three strenuous days were over, our turn 
coming next, the grandparents likewise helped us through the ordeal; the 
crew, including several Austrians—one who could not speak English—a negro, 
and an I. W. W. worker, all being served unstintingly on the best the house 
and country afforded. 
Then came the trip to Island Lake, on the return from which, in the sec- 
ond week of September, the appearance of the country had changed. Harvest- 
ing was over, the grain being stored partly in turret-like galvanized iron 
granaries in the fields, and most of the stacks having been burned. The 
sloughs that had dried out sufficiently had now been mowed for hay. Phala- 
rope Slough, in which I had waded over the tops of my rubber boots, labor- 
lously shoving through high slough grass, was now a flat, pale green, lake 
bottom, where horses grazed on the new tender growth; and here and there large 
hay stacks, put up by a stacker, their crowns held firm by rows of binder 
twine weighted down with stones, bore surprising testimony to the richness 
of the slough grass cover. 
The small sloughs including those where the Shovellers had done head 
exercises and the Night Herons had watched for frogs, had now dried up, 
pink-flowered mint, mossy tussocks, and spear-pointed sagittaria leaves look- 
