For according to all that I can find, in a long life and a varied one, twelve o’clock is the real time for a man to have his dinner.  Then the sun is at his noon, calling halt to look around, and then the plants and leaves are turning, each with a little leisure time, before the work of the afternoon.  Then is the balance of east and west, and then the right and left side of a man are in due proportion, and contribute fairly with harmonious fluids.  And the health of this mode of life, and its reclaiming virtue are well set forth in our ancient rhyme,—­

    “Sunrise, breakfast; sun high, dinner;
     Sundown, sup; makes a saint of a sinner.”

Whish, the wheat falls!  Whirl again; ye have had good dinners; give your master and mistress plenty to supply another year.  And in truth we did reap well and fairly, through the whole of that afternoon, I not only keeping lead, but keeping the men up to it.  We got through a matter of ten acres, ere the sun between the shocks broke 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.

[Illustration:  242.jpg Annie and Lizzie]

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.