But they all make hay while the sun shines, and count it joy.  Liberties are allowed during haying-time that otherwise would be declared scandalous; during haying-time the Kirk waives her censor’s right, and priest and people mingle joyously.  Wives are not jealous during hay-harvest, and husbands never faultfinding, because they each get even by allowing a mutual license.  In Scotland during haying-time every married man works alongside of some other man’s wife.  To the psychologist it is somewhat curious how the desire for propriety is overridden by a stronger desire—­the desire for the shilling.  The Scotch farmer says, “Anything to get the hay in”—­and by loosening a bit the strict bands of social custom, the hay is harvested.

In the hay-harvest the law of natural selection holds; partners are often arranged for weeks in advance; and trysts continue year after year.  Old lovers meet, touch hands in friendly scuffle for a fork, drink from the same jug, recline at noon and eat lunch in the shade of a friendly stack, and talk to heart’s content, sweetening the labor of the long summer day.

Of course this joyousness of the haying-time is not wholly monopolized by the Scotch.  Haven’t you seen the jolly haying parties in Southern Germany, France, Switzerland and the Tyrol?  How the bright costumes of the men and the jaunty attire of the women gleam in the glad sunshine!

But the practise of pairing is carried to a degree of perfection in Scotland that I have not noticed elsewhere.  Surely it is a great economic scheme!  It is like that invention of a Connecticut man, which utilizes the ebb and flow of the ocean-tides to turn a gristmill.

And it seems queer that no one has ever attempted to utilize the waste of dynamic force involved in the maintenance of the Company Sofa.

In Ayrshire, I have started out with a haying party of twenty—­ten men and ten women—­at six o’clock in the morning and worked until six at night.  I never worked so hard, nor did so much.  All day long there was a fire of jokes and jolly gibes, interspersed with song, while beneath all ran a gentle hum of confidential interchange of thought.  The man who owned the field was there to direct our efforts and urge us on in well-doing by merry raillery, threat, and joyous rivalry.

The point I make is this—­we did the work.  Take heed, ye Captains of Industry, and note this truth, that where men and women work together under right influences, much good is accomplished, and the work is pleasurable.  Of course there are vinegar-faced philosophers who say that the Scotch custom of pairing young men and maidens in the hayfield is not without its effect on esoterics, also on vital statistics; and I’m willing to admit there may be danger in the scheme.  But life is a dangerous business anyway—­few indeed get out of it alive!

* * * * *

Burns succeeded in his love-making and succeeded in poetry, but at everything else he was a failure.  He failed as a farmer, a father, a friend, in society, as a husband, and in business.