Western Reserve chronicle. [volume] (Warren, Ohio) 1855-1921, 1866-08-22
A Summer Day In Haying.
BY B. T. TAYLOR.

Five o'clock and summer morning
A silver mist hangs all along the streams,
a few downy clouds are afioat and the
landscape is heavy with dew. The COWS
turned out from the milking, are tink-
ling their way along the winding path to
the woods; the robins are calling to each
other in the orchard, and an enterprising
hen in the barn is giving "the world as
surance oP'-an egg. Somehow, earth,
on such morning, looks as if it were
ljust finished, the coloring not dry, the
moulding not "set;" without grave or a
grief in it.
Nothing 'the way of the wind" and
remembering that the sun ''cane OUT as
it set last night, it is pronounced a good
day for haying. So forth to the meadow.
the farmer, the neighbors, and the bows,
''armed and equipped" young bare
footed eommissary bringing up the rear
with earthen jug and bright tin pail
Much talk of ''wide swaths," and t'mow-
ing around, with laugh and lest, beguiIes
the Journey through the field of pasture
to the field of battle. Coats and Jackets
fly Ike leaves in winter weather. and
moves the phalanx with step and sweep
through the tall, damp grass. One bends
to the scythe as if it were an oar, and
pants on in the rear of his fellows. An
other walks erect and boldly up to the
grass, the glittering blade the while cur
wing freely and easily about his feet
The fellow in Kentucky jeans expended
his strength in boasting on the way, and
laoors like ship in heavy sea. while a
quiet chap in tow, that never said a word,
is the pioneer of the field.
On they move, towards the tremulous
woods in the distance. One pauses, and
brings the swath to an order arms, and
you can hear the tinkling of the rifle as
it sharpens the edge of Times symbol
Another wipes the beaded drops from
his brow, and then the swath netes blend
again in full orchestra. Onward still;
they are hidden in the waving grass-but
a broken row of broad brimmed hats,
that, rising and falling, seem to float
slowly over the top of the meadow.
Ten o'clock and cloudless sky. The
birds and the naples are silent and still;
not futter in the sky, solitary hawk is
slowly swinging in airy circles, over the
farm. Far down in the breathless lake
sweep his shadowy fellows. The long,
yellow ribbon of road leading to town IS
in culver with heat. "Briudle and
Bet" stand doing in the marsh; the
sheep are painting in the angles of the
fences; the horses are grouped beneath
! the old tree ''Pedro," the faithful guar
dian of the night has crawled under the
wagon for its shadow, now and then snap
ping in his sleep at the flies that hum
around his pendant ear; the cat has crept
up into the leafy butternut and stretched
herself at length upon limb to sleep !;
/ the canary is dreaming on his droWsy
perch and even the butterflies, weary
of Pickering in the sunshine, rest, like
blown exotics on the reeds. The chill
dren of neighboring school, all flushed
and glowing, come bounding down the
slope in couples, the old red pail swung
/ up between them; and the clatter OF the
Windless betokens ''the old oaken buck
ct" already dripping up into the sun,
with its brimming wealth OF water.
Twelve o'clock, and breathless noon.
The corn fairly curls in the steady blaze.
( The sun has driven the shadows around
the west and north walls; 1t has reached
the noon mark on the threshold and pours
the broad beams into the halls; the NOR
ming glories have struck their colors, and
little vine trailed up the wall by a
sSrihg of shroud shows decided symp-
toms of letting go. The horn winds for
dinner, but its welcome notes surprises
the mowers In the midst of the meadow
and they'll cut their way out like good
soldiers, despite their signal.
Back we are again to the field, aye,
and back too, upon the threshold OF
childhood. A chance breath watts TO us
the sweet, old fashioned fragrance of the
new mown hay, and we are younger in
memory than Wen ever be again. The
angry hum of bees just thrown out of
house and home, and the whistling quail,
as she whirled timidly away before the
steady sweep of the whetted scythes
and the shout of the children as the next
stroke laid open their summer hopes to-
day; and the bell-tones of the bob-o'-
links swinging upon the willows in the
"Hollow." Can't you hear-don't you
remember them all?
And have you forgotten the green knoll
under the wide spread beech-or was it
maple2 And how hungry you were, at
the morning lunch just from sympathy,
tho you hadn't learned your salt" for a
week? And the brown jug filed with
water, and in these olden times, you
know-the little black bottle with some
thing stronger, just "to qualify" it, as
they said, that nestled together amid the
cool and dewy grass in the fence corner.
We are sure you remember how magni-
ficent loads went tumbling into the barn,
you upon the top, and ow.they heaped
the new hay into the empty "mows" till
it was half as high as the ladder-up TO
the big beam-up to the swallow hole
and how you crept up with young group
land hid away in dark corner, festooned
with cobwebs, and played you were a
"uainter," or "catamountain," andgrowl-
ed terrifcally, to the unspeakable dread
of your little brother, or cousin, or some
body else. Or, weary of the frolic, how
YOU lay upon the hay and counted the
dust sunbeams, as they streamed though
the creyices of the loose siding, and
wondered how they got out again,
and how many it took to make day,
and passed your finger through them to
and fro, and marveled that you felt moth
| ing.
Many time, you know, you crept thro'
that same NOW with Mary Gray-dont
you remember MaryH She lived in the
house Just over the hill. Have you for
gotten how you went q strawberrying to-
gether? You picked in her basket
don't deny it-you always felt happier
than when you filed your own, though
you never knew why. You had a queer
feeling someties about the heart though
you never knew what. You have found
it all out since, no doubt. And Mary
what has become of her? Why, there
is reaper whose name is DEATH" that
goes forth to the harvestin sweetest Spring
and latest Autumn, and deepest Winter
as well, and Mary and Ellen Jane were
long ago bound up in the same sure bun
die of life.
Seven o'clock and clear night. The
shadows and the mist are rising in the
valleys-the frogs have set up their cho-
rus in the sWamp-the fre-hies are show
ing light off the marsh-the whip-poor'
wills begin their melancholy song-a stal
blazes beautifully over the top of the
woods, and the fair beings that people
our childhood come about in the twilight
the fair beings,
.,whe set as set the morning star, that goes