“I will go home and send them some refreshment,” said Mrs Estcourt. All the party rose and accompanied her. In the next field they passed the mowers preparing to begin mowing again. Geoffrey and Valentine both tried to mow, but utterly failed; the point of the scythe persistently stuck into the ground.
“A’ be a’ akkerd tool for a body as bean’t used to un,” said the eldest of the men, taking out his stone rubber from the sling at his back, preparatory to giving the scythe a touch up after such rough handling; “and um bean’t what um used to be when I wur a bwoy.”
“How do you mean?” said Felix.
“Aw,” said the mower, tilting his hat back, “th’ blades be as good as ever um wur—thaay folk at Mells be th’ vellers to make scythes. Thur bean’t none as good as thaim. But it be th’ handle, look’ee, as I means. I minds when thaay wur made of dree sarts of wood, a main bit more crooked than this yer stick, and sart o’ carved a bit; doant ’ee see? It took a chap a week zumtimes to find a bit a’ wood as ud do. But, bless ee, a’moast anything does now.”
Swish went the keen blade through the tall grass. They watched him a few minutes.
“Thur be some blight about,” said the man; “scythe do scum up terrable,” and he showed them the blade all covered with a greenish-white froth, supposed to be caused by insects. “Thur be blight up thur, look.”
He pointed to a dark heavy cloud that seemed to float at a great height in the east.
“It will thunder,” said May.
“Aw, no it wunt, miss,” said the mower. “A’ reckon as it’ll be nation hot; thuck cloud be nothing but blight. Spile the fruit, bless’ee.”
“So even the scythe handles used to be artistic,” said Felix, as they walked away. “There used to be art and taste and workmanship even in so common a thing. It was made of three distinct pieces of wood, carefully finished off; men took days to find a piece. Now it is nothing but a stick smoothed by machinery. I hate machinery. I like to see the artist in his work; to see the mark of the knife where the chip has been taken out. But the spirit of art flies when things are sent forth by machinery—hundreds exactly alike.”