The field of amber gold

by William Bigelow Neal

And so early next morning he hitched his six horses to the big binder and drove to the field. When the sickle had almost reached the grain, he tilted the platform so the knife would work five or six inches above the ground. Then he kicked another lever, and the whole machine sprang to life, and the twelve-foot knife began its tireless sawing motion through the guards. The platform and elevator canvases began their endless revolutions, to the accompaniment of much flapping of free ends, while a multitude of chains and sprockets added their whirr and rumble to the ensemble.

As the long knife touched and slipped beneath the flax, the slender stems quivered, then leaped into the air, to be met by the impact of the reel-slats and fall in a long line on the platform canvas, to be swept to the left and in between the elevator canvases. Emerging at the top, they fell forward and down until upraised arms stopped their progress. The long ribbon of grain was fed into the binder, and the packer arms drove it into a solid bundle. When the pressure become too great, a long needle from below, carrying a piece of twine drew it tight through a notch in a disk which already had carried the twine back, thus forming a loop. Now three small steel fingers grasped the twine and revolved once, tying a knot. An instant later another disk revolved and brought a small knife uppermost, to cut the twine just beyond the knot. Then two more arms whirred overhead and kicked the finished bundle down upon the carrier.

On the last day of the cutting Grahame had not been feeling well, and when the long obstinate streak of grain had finally dwindled to nothing and he turned toward home, he realized that something was decidedly wrong. He had dropped the traces and begun to unhitch when a wave of dizziness sent him leaning against the binder frame for support. With a strong man’s disregard and contempt for sickness, he attempted to go on with his task, but his strength gave out altogether, and he slipped to the ground in a heap.

After a while Jane, wondering at his long delay, came from the house in search of him. Frightened, she dropped to her knees and holding his head in her lap tried to coax him back to consciousness. Once he opened his eyes and murmured something about being knocked out in the last round, and lapsed again into unconsciousness.

It is not necessary to dwell on Jane’s ride to the nearest telephone nor the long fight the doctor and the sympathetic neighbors helped her put up before Grahame was out of danger. Influenza and pneumonia ran their course day after day, sapping the last ounce of strength from the body of a once strong man, until he lay a mere shadow of himself.

One evening Jane stood at the window, looking out over the field of flax. It had never been shocked, for there had been no one to do the work. Fortunately there had been no rain, and the bundles, remaining dry, had not sprouted, but now Jane was worried. The wind had blown from the east for several days, and now as she glanced toward the west she saw a long, low, slate-colored cloud moving along the horizon. She could not repress a shudder of fear. Of course it might pass with a shower or two, but so late in the fall, she had little hope. Apparently the stage was set for a genuine snowstorm, and if the flax were once covered, it would probably remain covered until spring.

In spite of the extra work incident to John’s sickness, Jane had left no stone unturned in her efforts to find a threshing rig. She had seen or written every thresherman who ordinarily operated in their neighborhood, only to meet with one disappointment after another. What little crop the hailstorm had left, locally, had been stacked, and the men who owned the big machines had moved farther away to get the cream of the threshing before returning to do their own work. Meanwhile, time had worn on, bringing nearer and nearer the inevitable day when storm clouds would close in and drop a mantle of snow to enshroud the grave of their last hope.

Sick at heart, Jane turned from the window. She had done all she could. If snow came, they were out of luck, that was all. Once during the evening she thought of Ironheart. She knew his rig was somewhere to the north of them, and that it was one of the survivors of the big steam rigs which had of late given way before the small neighborhood gas outfits. With his twelve or fourteen teams and the big separator, he could clean them up in one long day’s work. For a moment a ray of hope dawned in her breast. She thought of the hours she had spent nursing Ironheart back to health. If there were an ounce of gratitude left in that shriveled shell, he would surely help. Then she saw him again as he looked the morning he had left them, cold, cynical, apparently thankless for all she had done; and the spark of hope flickered and died.

At last, worn out by work and worry, Jane went to bed, but just as she was losing consciousness, an idea came to her. If it didn’t snow during the night, she would go to the nearest rig and offer them half the crop if they would come in and thresh it, at once. She woke Grahame, and they discussed it, pro and con, finally deciding there was no other course open to them. Meanwhile the night wind sang its melancholy way around the house, and once the feeble light from the night lamp showed them a single snowflake melting against the windowpane.

Sometime later Jane heard John’s voice calling to her; and awakening, she saw him propped up on his elbow and straining his eyes out into the darkness. As she moved slightly, he cautioned her: “Listen!”