A)no)ig the Ilayniuikcrs.
��307
��AMONG THE HAYMAKERS. By Arthur E. Cotton.
��The smell of new-mown hay is in the air, and the music of whetting scvthe. Who that was born and bred in the country does not remember the exhilarating boy pleasures of haying, with its prized freedom from the de- tested school-books and tasks, with its delicious draughts of home-brewed beer and the exhaustless supplies of good things from mother's exquisite lai-(ler? How cool the damp grass feels to our bare feet as we spread the green swaths ! Load-making on the ox-rack, and storing away in the mow of t[)e old barn — who shall tell the joys thereof.^
And what have we here? A ground sparrow's nest with two fledgelings. "We shall remember this so as to visit it at more leisure, and we shall re- member, too, that hornet's nest when we come to rake.
Daniel Webster, who was once a New Hampshire farmer boy and worked at haying on one of these hill farms, said a scythe always hung to suit him when it hung in a tree. Pitv Daniel never lived to see his way to become practically adopted by the agricultural world at large.
Under the old style all hands had to be in the field by four o'clock and mow till seven, without a particle of food. Men were reckoned for hardi- hood of physical endurance. The demijohn stood under a tree, and from frequent reference to it the " hands " would become noisy and quarrelsome. Then it took a half dozen stout men a month to cut a large farm. Now one man and a boy will do the same work in a week on
��nothing stronger tiian iced coffee. The unadulterated Yankee is passing away, and with him his crude habits of toil. Once in a great while we meet with an old-fashioned fellow, way back under the hills, who has not heard of the improved means of agriculture, or having heard of them, disbelieves in them, and jogs along at the old pace with hook and loafer, hauling his last load in on the snow. These are few. They have outlived their generation and their usefulness. But it is thickening up in the west, and to-morrow will be foul weather. All hands can go a-flshing. Early in the morning the angle-worms are se- cured, the bay mare hitched to the lumbering farm wagon, pipes are loaded and lighted, the luncheon pail, the fishing tackle, which includes a suspicious looking jug done up in a blanket and hidden under the seat (that was the time of the vigorous enforce- ment of the Maine law), are put aboard, and we are off for Bennett's Bridge and the famous fishing grounds. At the pond we get plenty of mosquito bites, but no fish bites. After waiting in vain for nibbles, and gesticulating frantically at the nios- quitoes, during which time we may have used some unnecessary exple- tives, our patience is finally spent, and we unanimoush^ vote it dull music, except the experienced Nim- rod of the party, whose waiting pow- er is composed of sterner stuff. He sticks to the boat : the rest adjourn to the shore, leaving old Piscator at his task, who, truth to tell, had won- drous good luck after we left him,
�� �
