[AT] This is how wheat was harvested in early Oregon about 1850.

[DAVIESW739 at aol.com]

After the first two or three years, the early  settlers could have plenty, 
not a great variety, it is true, but enough to keep  real hunger away. That is 
of course, if they were wise enough to look ahead. We  always had plenty, but I 
was sick and I craved dainty things and the course fare  was not palatable to 
me, bacon, dried peas, course flour bread and such like. We  always had 
plenty of money, but there was nothing to buy. It was not until after  the gold 
mines were discovered that sail vessels came to our coast to bring  sugar and tea 
and other things that were luxuries. In the fall when the grain  was ripe, it 
was cut by hand. Ten or a dozen men each taking a swath as wide as  he could 
reach with the swing of the scythe and around and around the field they  would 
go. A cradle attached to the blade of the scythe held the loose, long  straw 
to be dropped in a windrow at the outer edge of the swath with each stroke  of 
the long blade. Behind the cradlers came the men who raked the straw into  
piles as large as would make a good sized bundle. Then the bundlers, catching up 
 a handful of straw would twist and fashion it into a band, then catching up 
the  pile of straw a twist and a final tuck and the bundle was ready to be 
shocked  into groups of five or six, the heads of grain turned up to the  sun.

It was a thrilling sight, for the greatest rivalry existed  among the men. 
The cradlers would watch each other, and swing the big scythes,  swish, swish 
swish, we could hear them go. Their backs would bend with each  stroke and the 
muscles would swell on their brown bare arms. The sweat would  pour from them 
till their hickory skirts would reek with it. From time to time  they would 
stand the scythes on the handles and back and forth along the blades  they would 
swing the whetstones, such a clatter it would make. Men especially  skilled at 
it could make the big blade fairly sing. Not a stroke was wasted, for  every 
man watched his neighbor and meant to out do him, if he  could.

After supper they would all sit around under the trees and  boast about what 
they had done, and how much they intended to do the next day.  Reputations 
were at stake and must be maintained at any cost to muscles or  endurance, so it 
was seldom that a man stopped longer than was needed to sharpen  the blade or 
wipe the sweat out of his eyes.

At ten O'clock the  women took out a stack of pies and jugs of buttermilk. 
Oh! how fast those pies  would disappear, no time was wasted then, no time was 
to be wasted then, but at  noon everyone layed off and came to the house where 
Mother and some neighbor  women would have dinner ready.

I must not overlook my part in all  this, a small part, to be sure, but it 
made me feel pretty important. I CARRIED  WATER TO THEM, I carried it all the 
way from the spring at the foot of the hill.  It was a long ways and seemed, as 
the day wore on, to become longer and longer  with every trip. Back and forth 
I trudged with my bucket. Dear me, but those men  were terribly thirsty. They 
would tip up my bucket and drink and drink till  sometimes I felt that they 
were doing it on purpose. Sometimes Father would make  one of the Indian boys 
help me, but they were not as good at it as I was and the  thirsty workers often 
had to yell for them.

The afternoons were  hot and long and the air was filled with dust and 
monotonous sounds. The swish  of the cradles, the whirr of the crickets and the 
katydids, Oh! but it did make  one drowsy, and the spring seemed a long ways off. 
I was happier than most  anyone else when Father straightened up and rested 
his arms on the handle of his  scythe. It was the signal for everyone to quit 
and look about at the different  swaths to see who had done the most that day. 
Then Father would call: "Come on  to supper boys."



Walt Davies
Cooper Hollow Farm
Monmouth,  OR 97361
503 623-0460