Old Abe had strolled over to my place to see a new Harvester tried on a
good crop of wheat. In the previous reaping season I had been left
suddenly in the lurch by my Kaffirs, who had silently vanished in the
night for other scenes without a word of explanation, or a single regret
for the loss they would put me to, and I determined to be prepared in
future for such another vagary. Hence the Harvester, which reaped the
corn and bound up the sheaves, aided only by one man and a boy. We were
just sweeping clear the last square in the small field when Abe came up
and hung himself on the fence, with his back bent like a bow, and his
toes hitched under the lower wire. There, all bunched up, he eyed the
machine in silence.
"Well, Uncle, what do you think of it?" I said, with some pride, as the
last sheaf was tossed on one side by the human-like grippers.
He looked at me vacantly, then climbed slowly down, examined the sheaf
and the tie, and then took a look all round the country.
"Things is changing," he said.
"Yes; this is the age of progress and electricity."
"And snorting steam engines and that there man machine--that thing
without a heart, or a stomach, or eyes to see. Where's the good?"
"It is a labour-saving machine, and enables me to produce more."
"'Tis all vanity, an' foolishness, an laziness--that's what. Laziness
and pride," and the old sinner, who never did a fair day's work in a
month, wore an air of virtuous indignation as he resumed his seat on the
fence.
"Things is changing--that's so; and mankind's on the down track. Time
was when a reaper would take his sickle and harken to the rustlin' of
the yaller corn as he cut his way along, with the smell o' the yearth in
his nostrils, and the sight of all manner o' living insects below him.
And bymby he would straighten his back and look away over the land, or
at the shining layers behind, and then he would stoop to it again with
the thoughts busy in his mind as bees about a comb concerning the going
out of the wheat in waggons an' trains, an' ships across the sea to the
feeding of the nations. An' look at this yer cast-iron reaper; what's
it good for but to work for a cast-iron man? That's what's the world's
comin' to, with all the people cast in a mould. I'm gwine home!"
"Nonsense; come back with me and try the new lot of rolled tabak from
the Transvaal."
For all his disgust with the Harvester, Uncle Abe did not mind "riding,"
to the house on the driver's seat; neither was he cast down after supper
when he sat out on the stoep. The day's work was done for man and beast
and the great quiet of the evening brooded over the place. There we sat
and smoked in silence, until the glow died out of the sky, when the
night creatures began to stir, sending forth inquiring notes as if to
assure themselves that the time was really at hand for the starting of
the wonderful orchestra of the insect band. And, as we listened, there
rang out above the shrill drummings and chirpings and whistling, the
weird, mournful cry of the "ghon-ya," calling "ghon-ya!" "ghon-ya!" at
regular intervals, until the melancholy of its far-reaching cry stilled
the other noisy voices.
Abe stirred uneasily. "There's the lost sperrit," he muttered.
"Why, that's the night locust!"
"Soh; jes' a locust."
"Yes, with a transparent drum in place of a body which he blows out when
he wishes to make that noise, and rubs his legs upon the drum."
"How big is this yer drum?"
"About as large as a hen's egg."
"So; and with such a small thunder-bag he can send out a noise that
booms further than the greatest drum in the British army. Don't tell
me. That's no insect; it's a cry that comes from beyond."
"Beyond where?"
"Beyond the dark. I tell you, sonny, when the ghon-ya cries he ain't
bothering himself about any glass-eyed beetle-hunter who's just
hankering to label all the critturs in this yearth; he's not thinkin'
about you nor me, but he's jes' wailing in that shudderous voice to the
shadders that pass by in the night; whether it's to comfort 'em, or to
put 'em on the right track, or to warn 'em of danger, I can't say. One
night I had taken the short cut past the big krantz, being late from the
shop where I'd been for a tin of o' black sugar, and thinkin' of nothin'
at all when I yeard the ghon-ya's cry passin' overhead. There was
nothin' more'n ordinary solemn in the wail of it, but when I came to the
thick of the wood it seemed to me there was a queer whisperin' going on
among the trees. Have you ever marked a bee against the shadder? Of
course you have, and you'll know how he moves like a drop o' light as
the sun strikes on his wings against the dark of the hill behind. Well,
I happened to look back over my shoulder to the other side of the valley
where 'twas as black as black, and in the glance of my eyes, with the
blue and red light snapping from 'em as it does sometimes when you
blink, in that very moment of turning, I seed a passing of a many
shadders."
"Tree shadows?"
"Shadders of dreams, sonny, I tell you. Jes' in a flash I seed 'em
moving up, and then all was black groups of trees; but I knowed where
that whisperin' come from. Yes, a many shadders hurryin' on up that
valley with the cry of the `ghon-ya' pealin' out ahead. Well, I got
outer that valley pretty quick, and were hurryin' by the top of the
krantz overlooking the big kloof when the `ghon-ya' cried jes' ahead o'
me. A locust! Lor', sonny, right afore me there was a something
shaddery--a darker patch on the blackness, standing on the brink of the
krantz overlooking the deep kloof that lay below stretching towards the
sea, and the `ghon-ya,' loud, long, mournful as the solitary toll of the
death-bell, went out on the air, an' I jes' went to the ground as if the
bones had all been drawed out. Looking along the top, with my eyes to
the light that was in the sky over the sea, I seed them shadders from
the valley file down into the kloof. A many shadders, sonny, come out
of the valley--passed by that dark patch, and jes' floated down into the
kloof--whispering as they went. What sort o' shadders they were I
couldn't tell you, my lad; but they belong, sure enough, to the other
world beyond the dark. Many a time I yeard them same things in the
kloof, when the dead quiet has been broken by a movement in the air, and
a sort o' creepin' sound 'sif somethin' were peepin' at you from behind
a tree. You've felt it, too, of course. The dogs they know, 'cos
they're not so cock-sure as we are about knowin' everything jes' bekose
we can make a cast-iron reaper."
The ghon-ya from the darkness called again, as if the sorrows of the
world were in the cry.
"A locust!" cried Abe scornfully; "that's no locust. It's calling the
sperits of the woods together, and the ghostses of animiles--that's
what; and that's why all the other noises is hushed."