Haymaking

W ILLY used to get up very early in the morning at Ash Grove: yet not so early as the sun; for, in summer, the sun rises before any one is awake, excepting some of the farming men, who are getting ready to go and work in the fields as soon as it begins to be light. But of all animals, the one that is awake, strutting about earliest, is the cock. Willy heard him crow before he saw that it was light: and, when first he went to Ash Grove, he was awakened by his calling out, "Cock-a-doodle-do!" This sound delighted him, and he wanted to get up; but Ann told him that it was too early, and that he must go to sleep again. He then heard the hens cackle; they seemed to answer the cock's crowing; and Willy wondered whether they were talking together, and understood each other. Then he heard the hens call out,—"Cluck, cluck, cluck!"—and he knew that they were calling their little chickens.—"Then the little chickens must understand what their mothers mean," thought he. He wished to ask Ann; but he heard, by her manner of breathing, that she was gone to sleep again. So, after some little time, he fell asleep too; and, when he awoke, he was surprised to see Ann up and dressed. He was soon dressed himself; and they went into the cow-house to fetch some warm milk for his breakfast.

There they found the dairy-maid seated on a little low stool, milking one of the cows. Willy watched to see the milk stream down from the cow into a nice clean milk-pail; and, when he held out his little mug, the dairy-maid milked it full for him. There were six cows in the cow-house: Willy liked them all, they smelt so sweet, and looked so soft, and mooed so prettily. But there was one of them he liked better than any of the others. She was quite white, excepting a black spot on her forehead, another on her tail, and one of her feet was black. This cow was very gentle; she never kicked; and was so good-natured, that she would let Willy ride upon her back. Her name was Nanny. Willy liked to have Nanny's milk for breakfast very much; but he could not have any of it now, because Nanny had a young calf, that sucked all its mother's milk.

"If I milked Nanny," said the dairy-maid, "what would become of the poor calf?"

"It could eat grass, like the cows," said Willy.

"No," replied she; "it is but a baby-calf, and cannot eat yet."

As Ann and Willy were returning to the house, they saw a great many men cutting down the grass in the fields.

"Oh!" cried Ann, "I am glad we are going to make hay."

"Hay for the horses?" asked Willy.

"Yes," replied she: "all the long grass, that you were not allowed to walk on, is going to be cut down and dried; and then it will be made into hay."

"I am very glad of that," said Willy; "because then I may run about the grass any where." After a moment's thought, he added,—"And I am glad for the horses too, Ann, because they like hay. But the coachman says they like corn better still. When will they make corn, Ann?"

"Oh, the corn will not be cut for a long while: we have the hay-harvest in summer, and the corn-harvest in autumn, when summer is over."

Willy staid some time watching the mowers cutting down the grass. They stood in a row; and were so near to each other, that he thought the men would cut each other's legs with their scythes. But Ann told him there was no danger; for they knew exactly how far the scythe would reach when it moved round in cutting down the grass.

"Then let us go nearer," said Willy.

"No," replied she; "for we are not mowers, and we do not know how far the scythe will reach: so we had better keep at some distance, to be sure of being safe."

The men went on mowing till they got to the end of the field; and then they turned about, and began again on the grass which they had not yet cut.

After breakfast, Willy went out to see the mowers with his Mamma. She held something wrapped up in her shawl, so that Willy could not see it. He was very curious to know what it was; but his Mamma laughed, and told him he must have patience, and he should know by and by. Willy was obliged to restrain his curiosity, for he knew that his Mother would not be teased into doing or saying any thing after she had once said no.

When they came to the field where the mowers were at work, they saw a number of men and women, with large wooden forks, turning over the grass that had been cut down, and spreading it about.

"What are they doing that for, Mamma?" said Willy: "will they not spoil the grass, tumbling it about so?—it will not be nice for the horses to eat."

"It is on purpose to make it good for the horses to eat," replied she, "that they toss it about."

"Why, when Mark mows the grass, Mamma, he sweeps it all up very tidy, and then carries it away, without tumbling it about and making such a litter."

Mamma smiled, and said,—"And what does Mark do with the grass he has carried away?"

"Oh, I don't know: I believe he throws it away; he says the grass is too short to be good for any thing."

"But this grass," said his Mother, "is long enough to be good for something: and it is tossed and tumbled about in this manner that it may dry quickly. Look at that man who has taken up a large bundle on his fork, and is tossing it about; while he is doing so, the air gets between the grass, and under it, and over it, and all about it, and dries it quickly."

"But, if it was laid before the fire," said Willy, "it would dry better still; for, when any thing is wet, Ann hangs it before the fire to dry."

"Did you never see Ann, after she has been washing, hang out the things to dry in the air?"

"Oh, yes," said Willy; "I forgot that: but, when it rains, she cannot dry them in the air, for the rain would wet them; so then she hangs them before the fire. To be sure," added he, "there is not room for all of them before the fire; but they will dry in the laundry, hung up any where."

"And do you think there would be room for all this grass to be dried before a fire?" said his Mother.

"Oh, no," said Willy, laughing; "not all the fires in the house. I mean, if all the fires were lighted; for you know, Mamma, there are no fires any where now but in the kitchen."

"Besides," said his Mother, "suppose a great quantity was laid before the kitchen fire; if a spark were to fly out upon the grass when it was nearly dry; it would set it all on fire: only think what a blaze there would be! it would burn every thing that was near it, and so go on till it had burnt all the house!"

"Well, then, Mamma," said Willy, half frightened and half laughing, "the grass must not come into the house to dry."

"But," said his Mother, "there is a very good fire out of doors, which helps to dry."

"Where?" said Willy, looking about; "I cannot see any."

"Look up!" said she, and pointed to the sun.

"Is the sun a fire, Mamma?"

"Indeed, my dear, I cannot tell; but, as it feels so hot to us, I should think it was. All I know is, that it dries the grass better than any kitchen fire could do; and it dries not only a small quantity, such as we could lay before the kitchen fire, but all the grass that is cut down, in this field, and in every other field besides."

"In every field in all the world, Mamma? What! where the negroes live, and the copper-coloured people too!"

"Yes, my dear: the sun dries the grass wherever it shines; and that, you know, is all over the world."

"What a good sun you are!" cried Willy, "to dry so much grass."

"You know, Willy, who it was that made the sun to do so much good?"

"Yes," said Willy; "it was God Almighty. But, Mamma, why does not the sun dry the grass that is not cut down?"

"Because," replied she, "when the grass is alive and growing, as soon as it begins to be dry, it sucks up water from the ground. Do not you remember all the little mouths that a plant has at the end of its roots?"

"Oh, yes; and they drink water just as I do when I am thirsty."

"The water they drink," said she, "keeps the grass moist. Yet sometimes, when the sun shines very hot in summer, it dries the grass faster than the little mouths can find water to drink; and then the grass turns yellow, and becomes dry like hay."

"The poor hay," said Willy, "cannot suck up water, because the mowers have cut it down, and it has no more mouths."

"I am very glad of that," replied his Mother; "for we should not be able to make the grass into hay if it could suck up water."

Willy longed very much to make hay with the haymakers. The men lent him a fork; but it was too large and heavy for him to lift. The women lent him a rake; but he could not use that either, it was so large. So he took up the grass with his hands, to throw it about: but he could do very little that way. At length he exclaimed,—"Oh! I wish I had a little fork and a little rake just big enough for me!"

His Mother then unfolded her shawl, and what should he see within it but a nice little rake and fork just fit for him. His joy was very great; he jumped up to kiss his Mamma, who had been so kind as to get it for him; and then ran off and made hay with the haymakers till he was quite tired.

His Mamma then called him in.—"We have a beautiful day for haymaking," said she, "the sun shines so bright."

"And the haymakers say, Mamma, that there is a great deal of wind; and that the wind dries the hay as well as the sun."

"To be sure," said his Mother; "when the air moves about, it gets between the grass better, and dries it quicker, than if it was still."

"How nice the hay smells, Mamma!"

"Yes," replied she; "the grass has scarcely any smell; but after it is cut down and dried, it smells delightfully."

"But is it not dead after it is cut down?"

"Certainly; when the stalk is cut away from the roots, the grass can get no more water to feed it, so it dies."

"But I thought that dead things smell nasty," said Willy.

"Dead animals always smell disagreeably," said his Mother, "and dead vegetables sometimes; but they sometimes have a very pleasant smell after they die. Do you remember the china jar full of dried rose-leaves that we had in the winter?"

"Oh yes," said Willy; "how good they smelt! and they could not be alive there without any stalks, or any roots, or any water for the roots to suck up. Then, Mamma, I remember some dry dead lavender that Ann put in the drawers to make them smell sweet: to be sure that had stalks, but no roots, so it could not be alive."

"And do you remember," said his Mother, "the beautiful hyacinths we had in the spring?"

"Yes; and they smelt so sweet: but when they began to die, you told John to take them away, because they looked ugly, and smelt bad."

"Yes; and when we have a nosegay in the china vase, and it begins to wither, I send it away, because it smells disagreeably. So you see that some plants have a good smell when dead, and others a bad one. But dead animals have always a bad smell."