“Trim in the sail now, an’ quit your sq’abblin’,” spoke out Raner. “There, that’ll do. Now she p’ints up better, an’ ef she don’t slide off over much, we’ll make our landin’ spot without a tack. Ah! that’s a strong puff.”
Raner looked to windward thoughtfully a few minutes, and then began to whistle. The breeze, the onward motion of the boat, and the movement of the waves stirred his feelings, and he whistled on for a full half-hour.
As the craft approached the Beach, there came into view spots of meadow
“Where merry mowers, hale and strong,
Swept scythe on scythe their swaths along
The low green prairies of the sea.”
These scattered groups had been upon the meadows all night, ready to begin at sunrise the toil of the day. And toil it was too—toil that required an iron muscle and iron endurance. Yet, toil and moil though it were, beach-haying was always a welcomed season. It broke the monotony of farm life. There was the sail to and fro, the breeze from the sea in its first freshness, the beat of the surf, the wide view on every side, the visit to the ocean at night, and often a race with the slow-creeping tide to determine whether the mowers should lay their stint, or the water usurp their place.
The three mowers had made an early start and were in good season, but the sight of others at work roused their anticipations of the day’s labor, and Layn suggested, “Let’s give our scythes a thorer goin’ over. We’ll save time by it.”
They did this, and then Josh said to Raner, “Shell I put an edge on yer scythe?”
“No,” was the reply. “I’ll do that fur myself. You come aft an’ take the tiller.”