Here in the lovely Berkshire country near a charming lake we saw
the sturdy New England farmers at work in their harvest fields.
One farmer was still using the old self rake-reaper. It was
interesting to watch the old reaper in operation. A real old
gentleman seeing us, came out to the road and after a friendly
greeting, asked: "And what be ye doing in Yankee land?" Mr. H.
could not resist the temptation to bind a few sheaves for old
times' sake, and soon was binding the golden bundles, and so
fascinated was he, that an hour passed by (to the utter delight
of the old man's son, let it be known) while he neatly bound his
first New England sheaves.
He was well aware that this stop had undoubtedly meant the
missing of some grand natural scenery, but he declared with
amazing indifference that he would not have missed this
opportunity for many mountain scenes, however fair. The same
mysterious power that threw over the hills that filmy veil of
delicate blue had turned to gold the standing wheat, which so
lately undulated in the rippling wind with its sea-like tints of
shimmering, shining green.
Bidding our friends adieu, we thought what a grand harvest of by-
gone memories the day had brought.
One can never forget the groups of yellow and silver birch that
grow like beautiful bouquets along the trail. Druids built their
altars and worshiped beneath the aged oaks, but surely there
were no lovely groups of white and yellow birch there, or they
would have forsaken their oaks for these graceful, fragrant
trees.
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