If there is one thing more than another that hardens the lot of the
farmer-boy, it is the grindstone. Turning grindstones to grind scythes
is one of those heroic but unobtrusive occupations for which one gets no
credit. It is a hopeless kind of task, and, however faithfully the crank
is turned, it is one that brings little reputation. There is a great
deal of poetry about haying--I mean for those not engaged in it. One
likes to hear the whetting of the scythes on a fresh morning and the
response of the noisy bobolink, who always sits upon the fence and
superintends the cutting of the dew-laden grass. There is a sort
of music in the “swish” and a rhythm in the swing of the scythes in
concert. The boy has not much time to attend to it, for it is lively
business “spreading” after half a dozen men who have only to walk along
and lay the grass low, while the boy has the whole hay-field on his
hands. He has little time for the poetry of haying, as he struggles
along, filling the air with the wet mass which he shakes over his head,
and picking his way with short legs and bare feet amid the short and
freshly cut stubble.
But if the scythes cut well and swing merrily, it is due to the boy
who turned the grindstone. Oh, it was nothing to do, just turn the
grindstone a few minutes for this and that one before breakfast; any
“hired man” was authorized to order the boy to turn the grindstone. How
they did bear on, those great strapping fellows! Turn, turn, turn,
what a weary go it was. For my part, I used to like a grindstone that
“wabbled” a good deal on its axis, for when I turned it fast, it put
the grinder on a lively lookout for cutting his hands, and entirely
satisfied his desire that I should “turn faster.” It was some sport to
make the water fly and wet the grinder, suddenly starting up quickly and
surprising him when I was turning very slowly. I used to wish sometimes
that I could turn fast enough to make the stone fly into a dozen
pieces. Steady turning is what the grinders like, and any boy who
turns steadily, so as to give an even motion to the stone, will be much
praised, and will be in demand. I advise any boy who desires to do this
sort of work to turn steadily. If he does it by jerks and in a fitful
manner, the “hired men” will be very apt to dispense with his services
and turn the grindstone for each other.
This is one of the most disagreeable tasks of the boy farmer, and, hard
as it is, I do not know why it is supposed to belong especially to
childhood. But it is, and one of the certain marks that second childhood
has come to a man on a farm is, that he is asked to turn the grindstone
as if he were a boy again. When the old man is good for nothing else,
when he can neither mow nor pitch, and scarcely “rake after,” he can
turn grindstone, and it is in this way that he renews his youth. “Ain't
you ashamed to have your granther turn the grindstone?” asks the hired
man of the boy. So the boy takes hold and turns himself, till his little
back aches. When he gets older, he wishes he had replied, “Ain't you
ashamed to make either an old man or a little boy do such hard grinding
work?”
Doing the regular work of this world is not much, the boy thinks, but
the wearisome part is the waiting on the people who do the work. And the
boy is not far wrong. This is what women and boys have to do on a farm,
wait upon everybody who works. The trouble with the boy's life is, that
he has no time that he can call his own. He is, like a barrel of beer,
always on draft. The men-folks, having worked in the regular hours, lie
down and rest, stretch themselves idly in the shade at noon, or lounge
about after supper. Then the boy, who has done nothing all day but turn
grindstone, and spread hay, and rake after, and run his little legs off
at everybody's beck and call, is sent on some errand or some household
chore, in order that time shall not hang heavy on his hands. The boy
comes nearer to perpetual motion than anything else in nature, only it
is not altogether a voluntary motion. The time that the farm-boy gets
for his own is usually at the end of a stent. We used to be given a
certain piece of corn to hoe, or a certain quantity of corn to husk in
so many days. If we finished the task before the time set, we had the
remainder to ourselves. In my day it used to take very sharp work to
gain anything, but we were always anxious to take the chance. I think we
enjoyed the holiday in anticipation quite as much as we did when we had
won it. Unless it was training-day, or Fourth of July, or the circus was
coming, it was a little difficult to find anything big enough to fill
our anticipations of the fun we would have in the day or the two or
three days we had earned. We did not want to waste the time on any
common thing. Even going fishing in one of the wild mountain brooks was
hardly up to the mark, for we could sometimes do that on a rainy day.
Going down to the village store was not very exciting, and was, on
the whole, a waste of our precious time. Unless we could get out
our military company, life was apt to be a little blank, even on the
holidays for which we had worked so hard. If you went to see another
boy, he was probably at work in the hay-field or the potato-patch, and
his father looked at you askance. You sometimes took hold and helped
him, so that he could go and play with you; but it was usually time to
go for the cows before the task was done. The fact is, or used to
be, that the amusements of a boy in the country are not many. Snaring
“suckers” out of the deep meadow brook used to be about as good as any
that I had. The North American sucker is not an engaging animal in all
respects; his body is comely enough, but his mouth is puckered up like
that of a purse. The mouth is not formed for the gentle angle-worm nor
the delusive fly of the fishermen. It is necessary, therefore, to snare
the fish if you want him. In the sunny days he lies in the deep pools,
by some big stone or near the bank, poising himself quite still, or only
stirring his fins a little now and then, as an elephant moves his ears.
He will lie so for hours, or rather float, in perfect idleness and
apparent bliss. The boy who also has a holiday, but cannot keep still,
comes along and peeps over the bank. “Golly, ain't he a big one!”
Perhaps he is eighteen inches long, and weighs two or three pounds. He
lies there among his friends, little fish and big ones, quite a school
of them, perhaps a district school, that only keeps in warm days in
the summer. The pupils seem to have little to learn, except to balance
themselves and to turn gracefully with a flirt of the tail. Not much
is taught but “deportment,” and some of the old suckers are perfect
Turveydrops in that. The boy is armed with a pole and a stout line, and
on the end of it a brass wire bent into a hoop, which is a slipnoose,
and slides together when anything is caught in it. The boy approaches
the bank and looks over. There he lies, calm as a whale. The boy devours
him with his eyes. He is almost too much excited to drop the snare into
the water without making a noise. A puff of wind comes and ruffles the
surface, so that he cannot see the fish. It is calm again, and there he
still is, moving his fins in peaceful security. The boy lowers his snare
behind the fish and slips it along. He intends to get it around him
just back of the gills and then elevate him with a sudden jerk. It is a
delicate operation, for the snare will turn a little, and if it hits
the fish, he is off. However, it goes well; the wire is almost in
place, when suddenly the fish, as if he had a warning in a dream, for he
appears to see nothing, moves his tail just a little, glides out of the
loop, and with no seeming appearance of frustrating any one's plans,
lounges over to the other side of the pool; and there he reposes just as
if he was not spoiling the boy's holiday. This slight change of base on
the part of the fish requires the boy to reorganize his whole campaign,
get a new position on the bank, a new line of approach, and patiently
wait for the wind and sun before he can lower his line. This time,
cunning and patience are rewarded. The hoop encircles the unsuspecting
fish. The boy's eyes almost start from his head as he gives a tremendous
jerk, and feels by the dead-weight that he has got him fast. Out he
comes, up he goes in the air, and the boy runs to look at him. In this
transaction, however, no one can be more surprised than the sucker.