200 Bees and Buckwheat 



very much that it is hard to give proper heed 

 to any one of the many sights and sounds. 

 But how much harder to turn your back upon 

 it ! All too soon the sun sinks into the golden 

 clouds of the western sky. 



That was a happy day when the buckwheat 

 was threshed in the field, on a cool, clear, 

 crisp Oftober morning. The thumping of 

 the flails on the temporary floor put the world 

 in good humor. No bird within hearing but 

 sang to its time-keeping. Even the crows 

 cawed more methodically, and squirrels 

 barked at the same instant that the flail sent 

 a shower of brown kernels dancing in the 

 air. The quails came near, as if impatient 

 for the grains eyes less sharp than theirs would 

 fail to find. It was something at such a time 

 to lie in the gathering heap of straw and join 

 in the work so far as to look on. That is a 

 boy's privilege which we seldom are anxious 

 to outgrow. A nooning at such a time meant 

 a fire to warm the dinner, and the scanty time 

 allowed was none too short for the threshers 

 to indulge in weather prognostications. This 

 is as much a habit as eating, and to forego it 

 would be as unnatural as to forego the taking 

 of food. As the threshers ate, they scanned 



