The harvest seems more of a rush this year than usual. For so many weeks was the grain green that it seemed doubtful it should ever change colour and ripen. Almost suddenly at the last, the transition took place and, behold! the golden corn, the long morning dews, and the autumnal haze.
A spell of fine harvest weather and all the farmers are in a hurry, intent upon the clearing of an impossible number of acres in a day. “We want as many women in the stackyard as you can spare,” has a pleasant sound for the servants. They get a change of occupation and unusual opportunities for exchanges with the men and lads.
No sooner are the dinner dishes washed up than it is time to make up —- fill the kettle, and set things in readiness for the tea to be carried to the field. Where are the mugs? Left out after morning coffee, of course.
How quickly the darkness comes in the beginning of October —- falling as the last calves are fed —- did one of them give a “hoose-y” cough? It is quite dark before washing up is over in the dairy.