by the faint snap of the driver's whip, and
out of the low rustle of the everstirring lilliputian forest came the
wailing cry of a baby wild chicken lost from its mother--a falling,
thrilling, piteous little pipe.

Such momentary communion with nature seemed all the sweeter for the work
which had preceded it, as well as that which was to follow it. It took
resolution to rise and go back to my work, but I did it, sustained by a
kind of soldierly pride.

At noon we hurried to the house, surrounded the kitchen table and fell
upon our boiled beef and potatoes with such ferocity that in fifteen
minutes our meal was over. There was no ceremony and very little talking
till the hid wolf was appeased. Then came a heavenly half-hour of rest
on the cool grass in the shade of the trees, a siesta as luxurious as
that of a Spanish monarch--but alas!--this "nooning," as we called it,
was always cut short by father's word of sharp command, "Roll out,
boys!" and again the big white jugs were filled at the well, the horses,
lazy with food, led the way back to the field, and the stern contest
began again.

All nature at this hour seemed to invite to repose rather than to labor,
and as the heat increased I longed with wordless fervor for the green
woods of the Cedar River. At times the gentle wind hardly moved the
bended heads of the barley, and the hawks hung in the air like trout
sleeping in deep pools. The sunlight was a golden, silent, scorching
cataract--yet each of us must strain his tired muscles and bend his
aching back to the harvest.

Supper came at five, another delicious interval--and then at six we all
went out again for another hour or two in the cool of the
sunset.--However, the pace was more leisurely now for the end of the day
was near. I always enjoyed this period, for the shadows lengthening
across the stubble, and the fiery sun, veiled by the gray clouds of the
west, had wondrous charm. The air began to moisten and grow cool. The
voices of the men pulsed powerfully and cheerfully across the narrowing
field of unreaped grain, the prairie hens led forth their broods to
feed, and at last, father's long-drawn and musical cry, "Turn OUT! All
hands TURN OUT!" rang with restful significance through the dusk. Then,
slowly, with low-hung heads the freed horses moved toward the barn,
walking with lagging steps like weary warriors going into camp.

In all the toil of the harvest field, the water jug filled a large
place. It