e
roadside to a place where they could dig sassafras or the root of the
sweet-flag, roots very fragrant in the mind of many a boy with religious
associations to this day. There was often an odor of sassafras in the
afternoon service. It used to stand in my mind as a substitute for the
Old Testament incense of the Jews. Something in the same way the big
bass-viol in the choir took the place of "David's harp of solemn sound."

The going home from meeting was more cheerful and lively than the coming
to it. There was all the bustle of getting the horses out of the sheds
and bringing them round to the meeting-house steps. At noon the boys
sometimes sat in the wagons and swung the whips without cracking them:
now it was permitted to give them a little snap in order to bring the
horses up in good style; and the boy was rather proud of the horse if
it pranced a little while the timid "women-folks" were trying to get in.
The boy had an eye for whatever life and stir there was in a New England
Sunday. He liked to drive home fast. The old house and the farm looked
pleasant to him. There was an extra dinner when they reached home, and a
cheerful consciousness of duty performed made it a pleasant dinner. Long
before sundown the Sunday-school book had been read, and the boy sat
waiting in the house with great impatience the signal that the "day of
rest" was over. A boy may not be very wicked, and yet not see the need
of "rest." Neither his idea of rest nor work is that of older farmers.

VI. THE GRINDSTONE OF LIFE

If there is one thing more than another that hardens the lot of the
farmer-boy, it is the grindstone. Turning grindstones to grind scythes
is one of those heroic but unobtrusive occupations for which one gets no
credit. It is a hopeless kind of task, and, however faithfully the crank
is turned, it is one that brings little reputation. There is a great
deal of poetry about haying--I mean for those not engaged in it. One
likes to hear the whetting of the scythes on a fresh morning and the
response of the noisy bobolink, who always sits upon the fence and
superintends the cutting of the dew-laden grass. There is a sort
of music in the "swish" and a rhythm in the swing of the scythes in
concert. The boy has not much time to attend to it, for it is lively
business "spreading" after half a dozen men who have only to walk along
and lay the grass low, while the boy has the whole hay-field on his
hands. He has little time f