his light on wheaten
plumes, then hung his red cloak on the clouds, and fell into grey
slumber.

Seeing this we wiped our sickles, and our breasts and foreheads, and
soon were on the homeward road, looking forward to good supper.

Of course all the reapers came at night to the harvest-supper, and
Parson Bowden to say the grace as well as to help to carve for us. And
some help was needed there, I can well assure you; for the reapers had
brave appetites, and most of their wives having babies were forced to
eat as a duty. Neither failed they of this duty; cut and come again was
the order of the evening, as it had been of the day; and I had no time
to ask questions, but help meat and ladle gravy. All the while our
darling Annie, with her sleeves tucked up, and her comely figure
panting, was running about with a bucket of taties mashed with lard and
cabbage. Even Lizzie had left her books, and was serving out beer and
cider; while mother helped plum-pudding largely on pewter-plates with
the mutton. And all the time, Betty Muxworthy was grunting in and out
everywhere, not having space to scold even, but changing the dishes,
serving the meat, poking the fire, and cooking more. But John Fry would
not stir a peg, except with his knife and fork, having all the airs of a
visitor, and his wife to keep him eating, till I thought there would be
no end of it.

Then having eaten all they could, they prepared themselves, with one
accord, for the business now of drinking. But first they lifted the neck
of corn, dressed with ribbons gaily, and set it upon the mantelpiece,
each man with his horn a-froth; and then they sang a song about it,
every one shouting in the chorus louder than harvest thunderstorm. Some
were in the middle of one verse, and some at the end of the next one;
yet somehow all managed to get together in the mighty roar of the
burden. And if any farmer up the country would like to know Exmoor
harvest-song as sung in my time and will be sung long after I am
garnered home, lo, here I set it down for him, omitting only the
dialect, which perchance might puzzle him.

EXMOOR HARVEST-SONG

1

The corn, oh the corn, 'tis the ripening of the corn!
Go unto the door, my lad, and look beneath the moon,
Thou canst see, beyond the woodrick, how it is yelloon:
'Tis the harvesting of wheat, and the barley must be shorn.

(Chorus)

The corn, oh the corn, and the yellow, mellow co