"Here," I said, "is where we will begin."
So I turned back to the barn. I had not reached the other side of the orchard when who should I see but d.i.c.k Sheridan himself, coming in at the lane gate. He had an old, coa.r.s.e-woven straw hat stuck resplendently on the back of his head. He was carrying his scythe jauntily over his shoulder and whistling "Good-bye, Susan" at the top of his capacity.
d.i.c.k Sheridan is a cheerful young fellow with a thin brown face and (milky) blue eyes. He has an enormous Adam"s apple which has an odd way of moving up and down when he talks--and one large tooth out in front.
His body is like a bundle of wires, as thin and muscular and enduring as that of a broncho pony. He can work all day long and then go down to the lodge-hall at the Crossing and dance half the night. You should really see him when he dances! He can jump straight up and click his heels twice together before he comes down again! On such occasions he is marvellously clad, as befits the gallant that he really is, but this morning he wore a faded shirt and one of his suspender cords behind was fastened with a nail instead of a b.u.t.ton. His socks are sometimes pale blue and sometimes lavender and commonly, therefore, he turns up his trouser legs so that these vanities may not be wholly lost upon a dull world. His full name is Richard Tec.u.mseh Sheridan, but every one calls him d.i.c.k. A good, cheerful fellow, d.i.c.k, and a hard worker. I like him.
"h.e.l.lo, d.i.c.k," I shouted.
"h.e.l.lo yourself, Mr. Grayson," he replied.
He hung his scythe in the branches of a pear tree and we both turned into the barnyard to get the ch.o.r.es out of the way. I wanted to delay cutting as long as I could--until the dew on the clover should begin--at least--to disappear.
By half-past-seven we were ready for work. We rolled back our sleeves, stood our scythes on end and gave them a final lively stoning. You could hear the brisk sound of the ringing metal pealing through the still morning air.
"It"s a great day for haying," I said.
"A dang good one," responded the laconic d.i.c.k, wetting his thumb to feel the edge of his scythe.
I cannot convey with any mere pen upon any mere paper the feeling of jauntiness I had at that moment, as of conquest and fresh adventure, as of great things to be done in a great world! You may say if you like that this exhilaration was due to good health and the exuberance of youth. But it was more than that--far more. I cannot well express it, but it seemed as though at that moment d.i.c.k and I were stepping out into some vast current of human activity: as though we had the universe itself behind us, and the warm regard and approval of all men.
I stuck my whetstone in my hip-pocket, bent forward and cut the first short sharp swath in the clover. I swept the ma.s.s of tangled green stems into the open s.p.a.ce just outside the gate. Three or four more strokes and d.i.c.k stopped whistling suddenly, spat on his hands and with a lively "Here she goes!" came swinging in behind me. The clover-cutting had begun.
At first I thought the heat would be utterly unendurable, and, then, with dripping face and wet shoulders, I forgot all about it. Oh, there is something incomparable about such work--the long steady pull of willing and healthy muscles, the mind undisturbed by any disquieting thought, the feeling of attainment through vigorous effort! It was a steady swing and swish, swish and swing! When d.i.c.k led I have a picture of him in my mind"s eye--his wiry thin legs, one heel lifted at each step and held rigid for a single instant, a glimpse of pale blue socks above his rusty shoes and three inches of whetstone sticking from his tight hip-pocket. It was good to have him there whether he led or followed.
At each return to the orchard end of the field we looked for and found a gray stone jug in the gra.s.s. I had brought it up with me filled with cool water from the pump. d.i.c.k had a way of swinging it up with one hand, resting it in his shoulder, turning his head just so and letting the water gurgle into his throat. I have never been able myself to reach this refinement in the art of drinking from a jug.
And oh! the good feel of a straightened back after two long swathes in the broiling sun! We would stand a moment in the shade, whetting our scythes, not saying much, but glad to be there together. Then we would go at it again with renewed energy. It is a great thing to have a working companion. Many times that day d.i.c.k and I looked aside at each other with a curious sense of friendliness--that sense of friendliness which grows out of common rivalries, common difficulties and a common weariness. We did not talk much: and that little of trivial matters.
"Jim Brewster"s mare had a colt on Wednesday."
"This"ll go three tons to the acre, or I"ll eat my shirt."
d.i.c.k was always about to eat his shirt if some particular prophecy of his did not materialize.
"Dang it all," says d.i.c.k, "the moon"s drawin" water."
"Something is undoubtedly drawing it," said I, wiping my dripping face.
A meadow lark sprang up with a song in the adjoining field, a few heavy old b.u.mblebees droned in the clover as we cut it, and once a frightened rabbit ran out, darting swiftly under the orchard fence.
So the long forenoon slipped away. At times it seemed endless, and yet we were surprised when we heard the bell from the house (what a sound it was!) and we left our cutting in the middle of the field, nor waited for another stroke.
"Hungry, d.i.c.k?" I asked.
"Hungry!" exclaimed d.i.c.k with all the eloquence of a lengthy oration crowded into one word.
So we drifted through the orchard, and it was good to see the house with smoke in the kitchen chimney, and the shade of the big maple where it rested upon the porch. And not far from the maple we could see our friendly pump with the moist boards of the well-cover in front of it. I cannot tell you how good it looked as we came in from the hot, dry fields.
"After you," says d.i.c.k.
I gave my sleeves another roll upward and unb.u.t.toned and turned in the moist collar of my shirt. Then I stooped over and put my head under the pump spout.
"Pump, d.i.c.k," said I.
And d.i.c.k pumped.
"Harder, d.i.c.k," said I in a strangled voice.
And d.i.c.k pumped still harder, and presently I came up gasping with my head and hair dripping with the cool water. Then I pumped for d.i.c.k.
"Gee, but that"s good," says d.i.c.k.
Harriet came out with clean towels, and we dried ourselves, and talked together in low voices. And feeling a delicious sense of coolness we sat down for a moment in the shade of the maple and rested our arms on our knees. From the kitchen, as we sat there, we could hear the engaging sounds of preparation, and busy voices, and the tinkling of dishes, and agreeable odours! Ah, friend and brother, there may not be better moments in life than this!
So we sat resting, thinking of nothing; and presently we heard the screen door click and Ann Spencer"s motherly voice:
"Come in now, Mr. Grayson, and get your dinner."
Harriet had set the table on the east porch, where it was cool and shady. d.i.c.k and I sat down opposite each other and between us there was a great brown bowl of moist brown beans with crispy strips of pork on top, and a good steam rising from its depths; and a small mountain of baked potatoes, each a little broken to show the snowy white interior; and two towers of such new bread as no one on this earth (or in any other planet so far as I know) but Harriet can make. And before we had even begun our dinner in came the ample Ann Spencer, quaking with hospitality, and bearing a platter--let me here speak of it with the bated breath of a proper respect, for I cannot even now think of it without a sort of inner thrill--bearing a platter of her most famous fried chicken. Harriet had sacrificed the promising careers of two young roosters upon the altar of this important occasion. I may say in pa.s.sing that Ann Spencer is more celebrated in our neighbourhood by virtue of her genius at frying chicken, than Aristotle or Solomon or Socrates, or indeed all the big-wigs of the past rolled into one.
So we fell to with a silent but none the less fervid enthusiasm. Harriet hovered about us, in and out of the kitchen, and poured the tea and the b.u.t.termilk, and Ann Spencer upon every possible occasion pa.s.sed the chicken.
"More chicken, Mr. Grayson?" she would inquire in a tone of voice that made your mouth water.
"More chicken, d.i.c.k?" I"d ask.
"More chicken, Mr. Grayson," he would respond--and thus we kept up a tenuous, but pleasant little joke between us.
Just outside the porch in a thicket of lilacs a catbird sang to us while we ate, and my dog lay in the shade with his nose on his paws and one eye open just enough to show any stray flies that he was not to be trifled with--and far away to the North and East one could catch glimpses--if he had eyes for such things--of the wide-stretching pleasantness of our countryside.
I soon saw that something mysterious was going on in the kitchen.
Harriet would look significantly at Ann Spencer and Ann Spencer, who could scarcely contain her overflowing smiles, would look significantly at Harriet. As for me, I sat there with perfect confidence in myself--in my ultimate capacity, as it were. Whatever happened, I was ready for it!
And the great surprise came at last: a SHORT-CAKE: a great, big, red, juicy, b.u.t.tery, sugary short-cake, with raspberries heaped up all over it. When It came in--and I am speaking of it in that personal way because it radiated such an effulgence that I cannot now remember whether it was Harriet or Ann Spencer who brought it in--when It came in, d.i.c.k, who pretends to be abashed upon such occasions, gave one swift glance upward and then emitted a long, low, expressive whistle. When Beethoven found himself throbbing with undescribable emotions he composed a sonata; when Keats felt odd things stirring within him he wrote an ode to an urn, but my friend d.i.c.k, quite as evidently on fire with his emotions, merely whistled--and then looked around evidently embarra.s.sed lest he should have infringed upon the proprieties of that occasion.
"Harriet," I said, "you and Ann Spencer are benefactors of the human race."
"Go "way now," said Ann Spencer, shaking all over with pleasure, "and eat your shortcake."
And after dinner how pleasant it was to stretch at full length for a few minutes on the gra.s.s in the shade of the maple tree and look up through the dusky thick shadows of the leaves. If ever a man feels the blissfulness of complete content it is at such a moment--every muscle in the body deliciously resting, and a peculiar exhilaration animating the mind to quiet thoughts. I have heard talk of the hard work of the hay-fields, but I never yet knew a healthy man who did not recall many moments of exquisite pleasure connected with the hardest and the hottest work.
I think sometimes that the nearer a man can place himself in the full current of natural things the happier he is. If he can become a part of the Universal Process and know that he is a part, that is happiness. All day yesterday I had that deep quiet feeling that I was somehow not working for myself, not because I was covetous for money, nor driven by fear, not surely for fame, but somehow that I was a necessary element in the processes of the earth. I was a primal force! I was the indispensable Harvester. Without me the earth could not revolve!
Oh, friend, there are spiritual values here, too. For how can a man know G.o.d without yielding himself fully to the processes of G.o.d?
I _lived_ yesterday. I played my part. I took my place. And all hard things grew simple, and all crooked things seemed straight, and all roads were open and clear before me. Many times that day I paused and looked up from my work knowing that I had something to be happy for.
At one o"clock d.i.c.k and I lagged our way unwillingly out to work again--rusty of muscles, with a feeling that the heat would now surely be unendurable and the work impossibly hard. The scythes were oddly heavy and hot to the touch, and the stones seemed hardly to make a sound in the heavy noon air. The cows had sought the shady pasture edges, the birds were still, all the air shook with heat. Only man must toil!