In another week harvest had begun. Jamie Duncan drove the reaping-machine. The new second horseman and Sandie wielded a scythe each.
And it was near and around them that all the blitheness and the fun radiated. A reaping-machine is a very good invention, it must be admitted, but at the same time it must be granted that there is no poetry, no romance about it.
But listen to the musical swish swish of the curved and flashing scythe, wielded by the brown bare arms of the sturdy reaper. Note how the golden grain lies in its long straight swaths, till made into sheaves by the merry girl gatherers, who are coming closely up behind. Note, too, the friendly rivalry of the two scythemen, who work close at each other’s heels, pausing at last, panting and perspiring, when the “bout” is finished, and chatting and laughing and joking as they walk slowly to the other end of the field, there to sharpen scythes, to swallow a draught of table-beer, butter-milk or whey, and begin again once more.
A strong sturdy lass of about seventeen, with a complexion like strawberries smothered in cream, acted as gatherer to the new second horseman, while Jeannie herself followed Sandie. Then behind these came Geordie Black the orra man, and Willie himself, with his immense apron, doing duty as binders and stookers.
A word of digression, indulgent reader, which you may skip if you are so minded; but I have often remarked the great difference that exists between the reapers in an English and those in a Scotch harvest-field. In England you will never, scarcely, hear a joke, certainly never a song; the men and women look soddened, stupid, fat-headed, and that is precisely how they feel. And it is all owing to the frequent applications they make to the jars of beer, without which they would refuse to work. In Scottish harvest-fields it is entirely different. Nothing stronger than butter-milk, whey, or “sma’ ale” is taken, and the result is, that they are merry, lightsome, witty, and you may hear them laughing, joking, and singing long before you come near the field.
Pardon the digression, though I can’t say I feel sorry I have made it.
And Sandie, with his friend Willie, was the life of the cornfields.
Dear me! how their tongues did rattle on, to be sure; and dear me! how young Tibbie Morrison, she with the pretty complexion, did laugh. Why, it came to pass after a little time that Willie had only to look at her to set her off again; and when she laughed Geordie Black’s laugh was ready chorus.
Geordie was no beauty to look at, but he had a good heart of his own, nevertheless. That is, I should say, he had had, until—well, it is always best to speak the truth—until it was lost and won by bonnie Tibbie Morrison.
Jeannie herself remarked more than once, that all the time Geordie was working he couldn’t take his eyes off Tibbie.