At each return to the orchard end of the field we looked for and found a gray stone jug in the grass.  I had brought it up with me filled with cool water from the pump.  Dick had a way of swinging it up with one hand, resting it in his shoulder, turning his head just so and letting the water gurgle into his throat.  I have never been able myself to reach this refinement in the art of drinking from a jug.

And oh! the good feel of a straightened back after two long swathes in the broiling sun!  We would stand a moment in the shade, whetting our scythes, not saying much, but glad to be there together.  Then we would go at it again with renewed energy.  It is a great thing to have a working companion.  Many times that day Dick and I looked aside at each other with a curious sense of friendliness—­that sense of friendliness which grows out of common rivalries, common difficulties and a common weariness.  We did not talk much:  and that little of trivial matters.

“Jim Brewster’s mare had a colt on Wednesday.”

“This’ll go three tons to the acre, or I’ll eat my shirt.”

Dick was always about to eat his shirt if some particular prophecy of his did not materialize.

“Dang it all,” says Dick, “the moon’s drawin’ water.”

“Something is undoubtedly drawing it,” said I, wiping my dripping face.

A meadow lark sprang up with a song in the adjoining field, a few heavy old bumblebees droned in the clover as we cut it, and once a frightened rabbit ran out, darting swiftly under the orchard fence.

So the long forenoon slipped away.  At times it seemed endless, and yet we were surprised when we heard the bell from the house (what a sound it was!) and we left our cutting in the middle of the field, nor waited for another stroke.

“Hungry, Dick?” I asked.

“Hungry!” exclaimed Dick with all the eloquence of a lengthy oration crowded into one word.

So we drifted through the orchard, and it was good to see the house with smoke in the kitchen chimney, and the shade of the big maple where it rested upon the porch.  And not far from the maple we could see our friendly pump with the moist boards of the well-cover in front of it.  I cannot tell you how good it looked as we came in from the hot, dry fields.

“After you,” says Dick.

I gave my sleeves another roll upward and unbuttoned and turned in the moist collar of my shirt.  Then I stooped over and put my head under the pump spout.

“Pump, Dick,” said I.

And Dick pumped.

“Harder, Dick,” said I in a strangled voice.

And Dick pumped still harder, and presently I came up gasping with my head and hair dripping with the cool water.  Then I pumped for Dick.

“Gee, but that’s good,” says Dick.

Harriet came out with clean towels, and we dried ourselves, and talked together in low voices.  And feeling a delicious sense of coolness we sat down for a moment in the shade of the maple and rested our arms on our knees.  From the kitchen, as we sat there, we could hear the engaging sounds of preparation, and busy voices, and the tinkling of dishes, and agreeable odours!  Ah, friend and brother, there may not be better moments in life than this!