"When y' goin' to begin cuttin', boys?" Collectively they were boys to her, but when addressing them separately they were "Bert" and "Pap."
"To-morrow 'r nex' day, I guess," answered Anson, looking out of the open door. "Don't it look fine—all yeller an' green? I tell ye they ain't anything lays over a ripe field o' wheat in my eyes. You jest take it when the sun strikes it right, an' the wind is playin' on it—when it kind o' sloshes around like water—an' the clouds go over it, droppin' shadders down on it, an' a hawk kind o' goes skimmin' over it, divin' into it once in a while—"
He did not finish; it was not necessary.
"Yes, sir!" adjudged Gearheart, after a pause, leaning his elbows on the table and looking out of the door on the far-stretching, sun-glorified plain.
"The harvest kind o' justifies the winter we have out here. That is, when we have a harvest such as this. Fact is, we fellers live six months o' the year lookin' ahead to harvest, an' t'other six months lookin' back to it. Well, this won't buy the woman a dress, Ans. We must get that header set up to-night if we can."
They pushed their chairs back noisily and rose to go out. Flaxen said:
"Say, which o' you boys is goin' to help me churn to-night?"
Anson groaned, while she laughed.
"I don't know, Flax; ask us an easier one."
"We'll attend to that after it gets too dark to work on the machine," added Bert.