the highest honor in the world.

It was all poetry for us and we wished every day were threshing day. The
wind blew cold, the clouds went flying across the bright blue sky, and
the straw glistened in the sun. With jarring snarl the circling zone of
cogs dipped into the sturdy greasy wheels, and the single-trees and
pulley-chains chirped clear and sweet as crickets. The dust flew, the
whip cracked, and the men working swiftly to get the sheaves to the
feeder or to take the straw away from the tail-end of the machine, were
like warriors, urged to desperate action by battle cries. The stackers
wallowing to their waists in the fluffy straw-pile seemed gnomes acting
for our amusement.

The straw-pile! What delight we had in that! What joy it was to go up to
the top where the men were stationed, one behind the other, and to have
them toss huge forkfuls of the light fragrant stalks upon us, laughing
to see us emerge from our golden cover. We were especially impressed by
the bravery of Ed Green who stood in the midst of the thick dust and
flying chaff close to the tail of the stacker. His teeth shone like a
negro's out of his dust-blackened face and his shirt was wet with sweat,
but he motioned for "more straw" and David, accepting the challenge,
signalled for more speed. Frank swung his lash and yelled at the
straining horses, the sleepy growl of the cylinder rose to a howl and
the wheat came pulsing out at the spout in such a stream that the
carriers were forced to trot on their path to and from the granary in
order to keep the grain from piling up around the measurer.--There was
a kind of splendid rivalry in this backbreaking toil--for each sack
weighed ninety pounds.

We got tired of wallowing in the straw at last, and went down to help
Rover catch the rats which were being uncovered by the pitchers as they
reached the stack bottom.--The horses, with their straining,
out-stretched necks, the loud and cheery shouts, the whistling of the
driver, the roar and hum of the great wheel, the flourishing of the
forks, the supple movement of brawny arms, the shouts of the men, all
blended with the wild sound of the wind in the creaking branches of the
oaks, forming a glorious poem in our unforgetting minds.

At last the call for dinner sounded. The driver began to call, "Whoa
there, boys! Steady, Tom," and to hold his long whip before the eyes of
the more spirited of the teams in order to convince them that he really
meant "stop