The sun. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1916-1920, 1918-07-28

like Meyers though he once called me
down for describing him as a hero-that
wheat is to-day beating both drought and
frost, claiming mile by mile little more
of the reclaimed arid lands each year,
stretching mile by mile little farther
into the realm of King Frost
One effective agricultural explorer is
worth a million kaisers to the good of
the race; and the humble backwoOds
settler who saved his Red Fife heads and
the poor Scandinavian settler who de-
veloped the Marquis wheat were as much
explorers as the hero who died in China.
TO the public at large the big spec
tacular moment of the wheat, the agony
act of the play, if you like TO call it that,
is the harvest. Excursion trains run har-
vest hands in thousands to the yellow
fields. The men live in tents with chuck
wagons and cook like armies, which has
relieved the fearful stress that used to
fall on the wheat farmers wife at this
time.
Self binders click and hum like the
wings of an airplane from dawn till dark.
Some are drawn by two horses. Some
are drawn by forty horses. Some thresh
and bag the grain as they cut.
The wheat harvesters work like fevered
sappers in an army. No private granary
on earth could house the crop of these
great grain fields. Sometimes it is stacked
mountain high unbagged and covered with
canvas. Sometimes it y bagged and piled
in rows like cement block building; but
again the wheat farmers must beat the
weather before autumn rains. So mile
long professions of wagons, wagons
hauled by teams, wagons hauled by trac-
tors, set out across the prairie for the
, elevators. Right here nail and refute the
foolish Sc f-evident lie of farmers "hoard-
ing" " at! They couldn't except in
quantities of a few thousand bushels.
Wheat as a Real Drama of Life.
To me, the long lines of wheat wagons
winding across the prairie are the drop
curtain act of the wheat drama. You
see them coming through the slant rays Of
the rising sun over the autumn mellowed,
nutty odored prairie like the caravans Of
pilgrims to some shrine, the temple Of
the years plenty, the tall gaunt elevators.
You see the empty wagons going back
at night against the rays of the blood red
exaggerated sun sinking in seas Of
splendor. The faces in the wagons are
harvest moons Of thanksgiving satisfac-
ton. What the faces are saying is:
"Well, thank God, that takes the mort
gage off my neck, and there will be
enough left for a new house for mother,
and the kids can 60 to college this winter,
and, say, son, this is Gods good country
all right, all right"
Afar in the darkening horizon count
less fires flicker like searchlights. Mil
ions and millions of tons of wheat straw
are being burned because there is moth
ing else to do with it. I never see the
blur Of smoke clouds above the Pickering
lights that guide the wagon; rafting home
over the frosty roads but think of the
ancient rite of incense to the Great Good
God of Plenty.
The hungry, tired drivers may utter
rough oaths as they hurry the tagging
teams home, but believe ne, if you know
the hopes and fears in the hearts below
the sun bronzel faces you will recog-
nize the roughest swear word as a prayer
of thanks to God