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.