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

[charlie hill]

Nice story Walt but you need to credit the author.  Who wrote it and where?

Charlie
----- Original Message ----- 
From: <DAVIESW739 at aol.com>
To: <at at lists.antique-tractor.com>
Sent: Tuesday, March 22, 2005 4:00 PM
Subject: [AT] This is how wheat was harvested in early Oregon about 1850.


> 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
>
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