The field of amber gold

by William Bigelow Neal

Day after day he moved up and down the field, and the black streak grew wider and wider. Sometimes he changed to the drill and seeded what he had plowed, and meanwhile there came the soft rains of early spring, soaking up the thirsty earth. In time the first land plowed became a long band of blue-green. When the wheat was in, he changed to oats and finally to a few acres of spelts for hog feed. June came, and half of it passed, leaving the fields shimmering in the heat of the noonday sun or waving in the cool breezes that followed the frequent showers. Grahame greased the moldboards of the plow to prevent rusting and then went fishing. He needed a few days of rest before haying began.

One afternoon toward the end of June, Grahame, who had just finished cultivating the potatoes, was spraying them with Paris green. It had been an unusually hot day, without a breath of wind, and the air hung heavy and oppressive. Absorbed in his work, he noticed nothing unusual until there came a faint tremor of the air, a low, vibrant thing, half sound, half jar. Straightening up, he looked around to find the western horizon a tumbled mass of threatening clouds. There was a long fork of light, and again came the low murmur, although a little louder than before.

Grahame had long ago learned to fear storms which came up on apparently still air, and his first thought was of hail. He tried to dismiss the fear as foolish, because it was too early in the season for hailstorms. As a precautionary measure, however, he went to the pasture and drove in his stock. As he came back, Jane was working with the turkeys and young chickens. It took the combined efforts of both to find and drive in the last turkey hen, and by that time the clouds were well above their heads. On their crest was a long white billow rolling over and over, from which shot out streamers of white vapor to fall behind in long trailing lines. Behind the crests were the dreaded streaks of green, crossed and recrossed by jagged lines of crimson fire. Then came a black wall of water sweeping toward them across the fields, while the roar of thunder had become continuous.

In the house they worked fast shutting windows and getting ready for wind and rain if for nothing worse. The wall of water came on, shutting out mile after mile of fields, crossed the section line on their west and came up through the wheat. With awful force it struck. A roar, a crash and darkness. The house writhed and groaned, but it held fast to its foundation. Sheets of water ran from the eaves, and the yard became an electrically illuminated lake. For ten minutes it continued unabated, and then the roar fell away to little more than a whisper.

It was the crucial time, and Grahame held his breath. A glance had shown him that the buildings were all intact, and his hopes began to rise. Just then came the forerunner of doom. Something hit the roof like the tap from a small sledge. Running to the window, they saw the water in the yard spurting up as though from shells in a naval engagement. From the lungs of Grahame came the sigh of a man who recognizes defeat. Nothing on God’s green earth could save them now. All was lost, his wheat, his home, his stock, everything gone. Pieces of ice from the size of a pea to big three-cornered chunks larger than hens’ eggs were splashing and bobbing about the yard. With no wind, they were doing little harm, but Grahame drew no comfort from that, for he knew all too well what was behind them, and soon it came. Another roar, another crash. The battering on walls and roof, the splitting of siding and shingles, the breaking of glass and roaring of wind produced pandemonium.

Of the two west windows, they chose one and held pillows against the glass. The other crashed in with a shower of splintered panes, leaving an opening for icy projectiles that pounded across the room to pile up on the opposite wall. For a time the screen on the window they were guarding held, but in the end it gave way and only the pillows saved them from another deluge. When the last pane of glass had been battered out, they stuffed the pillows farther in and reinforced them with other bedding. And then suddenly it seemed as though a divine Protector had thrust forth a shield and covered the house. The tumult ceased as abruptly as it had begun. The quiet was oppressive. The wind dropped to a breeze and a burst of sunlight illuminated the field of wheat before them. There was nothing but a sea of mud.

For many minutes Grahame stood leaning against the battered window. His head rested against his arm, and his whole body sagged in an attitude of utter despondency. Only those who have known what it is to have the results of long hours of work and hope dashed to nothing by the lash of fire or storm can realize the agony of this man who suddenly found himself bereft of the foundation upon which all of his hopes were builded, and face to face with ruin. He was a strong man, as all of his kind must be who wrest a living from Mother Earth, but this last, the greatest blow of all, had been a hard one. The spark of resistance had been all but beaten out.

In the hour of supreme discouragement it is usually the woman who revives first. Jane saw and understood the force of their calamity as well as John himself; but within her she carried the indomitable faith of the pioneer—the faith which endured, over mountains and deserts, through bitter cold and choking dust, to build an empire under the war-clubs of Apache and Sioux. Jane’s first thought was for the man at the window, and soon Grahame felt her arm across his shoulder and the gentle touch of her hand on his hair.

For a long time she too rested her elbow on the empty sash and gazed out on the scene of desolation. Before her eyes stretched a hundred acres of blue-gray mud. Not a living thing in sight, not a plant or weed! At the last thought an expression of grim satisfaction flashed across her face. At least the weeds had gone too. Behind the drill a drift of hailstones was slowly melting in the sun, and the thawing ice brought a renewed tang of spring to the air. It seemed as though the season was just beginning again, and as she looked down along the pasture fence, she almost expected to see a blue bank of wild crocus, just as she had less than two months ago.

From the drill to the field and back to the drill again her eyes wandered, and though she was hardly aware of seeing either, the laws of suggestion came subconsciously into operation. Slowly at first, and then with gathering force, an idea took possession of her mind, and with it came a new expression of hope. She turned with an eager gasp to the man at her side.