cutting that day.  At eleven o’clock the tedder was started, and in two hours the cut grass had been turned.  At three o’clock the rake gathered it into windrows, from which it was rolled and piled into heaps, or cocks, of six hundred or eight hundred pounds each.  The cutting of the morning was in safe bunches before the dew fell, there to go through the process of sweating until ten o’clock the next day.  It was then opened and fluffed out for four hours, after which all hands and all teams turned to and hauled it into the forage barn.

The grass that was cut one morning was safely housed as hay by the second night, if the weather was favorable; if not, it took little harm in the haycocks, even from foul weather.  It is the sun-bleach that takes the life out of hay.

This year we had no trouble in getting fifty tons of as fine timothy hay as horses could wish to eat or man could wish to see.  We began to cut on Tuesday, the 6th of July, and by Saturday evening the twenty-acre crop was under cover.  The boys blistered their hands with the fork handles, and their faces, necks, and arms with the sun’s rays, and claimed to like the work and the blisters.  Indeed, tossing clean, fragrant hay is work fit for a prince; and a man never looks to better advantage or more picturesque than when, redolent with its perfume, he slings a jug over the crook in his elbow and listens to the gurgle of the home-made ginger ale as it changes from jug to throat.  There may be joys in other drinks, but for solid comfort and refreshment give me a July hay-field at 3 P.M., a jug of water at forty-eight degrees, with just the amount of molasses, vinegar, and ginger that is Polly’s secret, and I will give cards and spades to the broadest goblet of bubbles that was ever poured, and beat it to a standstill.  Add to this a blond head under a broad hat, a thin white gown, such as grasshoppers love, and you can see why the emptying of the jug was a satisfying function in our field; for Jane was the one who presided at these afternoon teas.  Often Jane was not alone; Florence or Jessie, or both, or others, made hay while the sun shone in those July days, and many a load went to the barn capped with white and laughter.  The young people decided that a hay farm would be ideal—­no end better than a factory farm—­and advised me to put all the land into timothy and clover.  I was not too old to see the beauties of haying-time, with such voluntary labor; but I was too old and too much interested with my experiment to be cajoled by a lot of youngsters.  I promised them a week of haying in each fifty-two, but that was all the concession I would make.  Laura said:—­

“We are commanded to make hay while the sun shines; and the sun always shines at Four Oaks, for me.”

It was pretty of her to say that; but what else would one expect from Laura?

The twelve acres from which the fodder oats had been cut were ploughed and fitted for sugar beets and turnips.  I was not at all certain that the beets would do anything if sown so late, but I was going to try.  Of the turnips I could feel more certain, for doth not the poet say:—­