The field of amber gold

by William Bigelow Neal

Never in all her life had Jane experienced such a feeling of intense gratitude as that which swept over her when she realized that there was no worry, nothing for her to do but care for her husband; and back in his room, she talked and watched by turns until the light in the haymow was blown out and she knew the men were asleep—all but the man on the water tank, who sat slouched forward in his seat, wrapped in the folds of a heavy sheepskin coat.

A breeze came from the east, and she was thankful, for it meant the flax would be dry enough to thresh at daybreak. Sometimes, after a quiet night, it would be too tough to thresh until near noon the next day.

John reached out and took his wife’s hand.

“Kind of looks, honey, as though we might win the last round, after all.”

An hour later Jane could hear the rattle of gears running loose on the downhill slope, and in a few minutes the big engine turned in at the gate. Halfway across the yard it stopped, and a man ran back to pull the pin between separator and tender. Then the engine came on with only the separator. At the expense of much snorting and chugging, the cumbersome separator was finally wheeled into position, where it settled with a thud into the holes already dug for its hind wheels. The engine then cut loose, and turning so as to face the separator, backed toward the house far enough to allow for the long drive-belt; there it stopped, and soon the yard was quiet again except for the low whine of imprisoned steam.

Throughout the remainder of the night Grahame and Jane alternately fought for sleep and watched from the window for the dreaded change in the weather. Clouds were scudding across the sky, and there was a feeling of rain or snow in the air. Rain so late in the season would in all probability turn to snow, and so one was as bad as the other. Few people can realize the suspense John and his wife were called upon to bear during those hours of darkness, but there is an end to the longest night, and an hour before daylight came the faint tinkle of an alarm clock and a man from the cook-car went to the engine; reaching up into the cab he grasped a cord, and there followed the long, clear blasts of the whistle. As if in answer a feeble light flickered through the cracks of the haymow door; another flashed in the cook-car, and far out on the prairie other lights came out one by one, each marking the location of a farm from which help was coming.

Presently from every direction across the field came wagons to join those already in the flax. The first ones loaded, pulled in and ranged themselves in a double line on each side of the engine. Ironheart climbed the separator and gave a signal. The engineer opened the cylinder cocks and eased his reverse back. Then he tapped lightly on the throttle, and the big engine moved slowly, very slowly back, lifting and stretching the drive-belt until it was drawn taut and hung in the air, slapping and chafing itself where it crossed. Another signal, and the reverse was pushed ahead, the throttle opened slowly again and the engine glided into almost silent motion.

The quivering belt began to move back and forth. The separator too came to life, starting reluctantly with many protesting groans and squeaks; but gathering speed, these sounds gradually ceased, and it took up a heaving, shaking motion that ejected spurts of dust from every joint and crevice, filling the air with a yellow haze which hung in dense clouds about the machine.

Beginning with a low hum, the separator’s tone arose gradually to a whirr and thence in a crescendo to a high-pitched droning whine, steadily, monotonously, on and on.

All through the day the big machine kept up its ceaseless whine. Several times snow-squalls swept by, and one or two crossed the field, but it had grown colder during the day and the dry snow did little or no damage.