The Toledo chronicle. [volume] (Toledo, Tama County, Iowa) 1873-1924, 1876-10-26
A California Wheat-Haryest,

SUPPOSE that upon one of the many
days of the harvest-season you get out
of bed at an unusually early hour, and
again climb to the house-top.
Beneath and in front of you will lie,
as before, the pale, golden sea of
wheat, girdled in the cool distance
with the purple mountains. The air
will be soft and delightful to breathe;
the oaks upon the river-bank will
throw shadows across the roadway,
and the rays of the sun will spread over
the enor nous plain--a smile Of greet
ing for the day.
You will sweep the horizon with
your glass. Hardly to be seen, even
with that, are some curiously-shaped
dots, moving slowly hitler and thith-
er. They seem to crawl like insects,
some going north, some south, some
east and some west. After a while
you will distinguish that nearly every
one of these dots is Of deep-red color.
A little later you recognize the awk-
ward shape of the separators and the
broad-topped tunnels of the engines.
Throngs of people, most of them in
wagons, but some afoot, follow on be-
hind. After a while all these now
widely-separated groups will come to a
standstin. They have taken up their
positions for the onslaught upon the
grain-felds as deliberately and with as
much thought as batteries take up po-
sitions for battle.
When one of these corps approaches
its station, a header, with its attendant
wagons, is sent forward to cut a clear
place in the center of the area to be
worked upon that day. The machine
is pressed upon the wheat, devouring
1t as it goes, and then, having accom-
plished proper distance, turns and
works in a circle, cutting out bare
spot from three to five acres in extent.
This is the point from which seventy
acres of wheat are to be hewed down.
cast into the thrasher, and sacked for
market before shutdown.
Then the separator, and engine, and
all the teams, move forward up the
lane, and into the circle. The first
comes to halt in the center, the
second takes up its position in the
rear, and the headers at once attack
the wheat; the first taking the first
swath of the encircling grain, the next
the second, a little in the rear, and
50 ON.
The betting between the engine and
separator is adjusted, and the engineer
starts his fires. The shoots that are to
convey the grain from the canvas on
the ground upon which it is pitched
from the header-wagons are attached,
and the bag-fllers bring up their sacks.
All the lids that cover the inner works
of the great machine are drawn over.
and all is made fast. The wheels are
ipNhS', "o "iC lioSt VI Illt tuSll
Great care is taken to keep all things
on us perfect level as may be, to insure
the proper economy of force.
The scene even at this time is one of
great animation. The men are I'LL
fresh, and are working with ardor;
the stimulus of the noise, the move
ment, and the bright sun, is great. 1t
is impossible not to feel the pulse
quicken even at this early stage of the
play, and one recalls his old-time ideal
of harvest-field, with its beribboned
reapers, and their long, curved sickles,
with a little doubt of its superior
grace.
They try the engine. 1t is all right.
The separator clatters in tune, and
nothing is amiss. Now. then, for the
grain. In a moment the wagons begin
to unload. huge forkfuls are pitched
upon the ground, from which it is
borne into the recesses of the separa
tor. Then there enSues a strange com
bination of tremendous noises-a sound
of grinding, a sound of brushing, q
sound of humping and sound OF
roaring. The entire fabric shivers
from top to bottom, and from out every
creylce there pOurS thin sheet of dust
The upper part belches out the waste
hundreds of pounds and tons of chaff
and a sitting cloud follows it. In q
second everything is on springs. The
men who fill the bags hang them at the
edges of the troughs. The brown flood
comes pouring down-a stream of
clean kernels of Wheat-and the day.
work fairly begins. From the largest
separator in the field there run out six
sacks, or 500 pounds, of grain, fit for
market, each minute. This machine.
one day in August, 1874, threshed
$40 bushels. Its owner calls it the
Monitor. All the engines have names
as well-GladiatOr Phoenix, Mars and
the like. No one would ever be mad
enough to call one of these Ceres,
for instance. There is no suggestion
OF gentleneSs, or grace, or poetry, in
the whole field. All is ingenuity, pre-
cision, order, force. A cry of admira-
ton rises to ones lips time and again,
but the sensation is the same that one
feels upon witnessing string Of ten
strikes in bowling-alley, only thous-
and times extended.
1t is great to see the headers keep
their circles of destruction, hewing
down the fair expanse of bowling
golden heads as ship news down
the crested waves, and to hear the
smooth, intending click-clack of their
glistening sickles. Even the move
ments of the ungainly red wagons that
wait upon them have an unfailing or
der that has strange power to please.
Most of the men are dressed in brown
canvas Jumpers and overalls, and wear
hats of straw or felt.
Not one of them is idle, nor seems to
wish to be. Most of them are driving.
Some are pitching, few are feeding
the separator, few more are filling,
sewing and carrying away the bags,
and some are brushing away the heaps
of chaff. Early in the day there is
plenty of talk and laughter, but later
on, as the work tells, and the sun
grows hot, the tongues become silent,
and the hubbub of the machines alone