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The Reaper by Dorothy Easton. Millgate
was a rich farmer, owning his own

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machines, not like those poorer,
smaller men who hired an engine from a

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neighbor. He has his reaping machine, a red and yellow walter Wood Cleveland

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brand. Every morning, now,
as soon as it's dry enough, about

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nine o'clock, the engine starts,
and from the farmer's manor house, its

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heavy, drowsy sounds are heard.
For those on the machine, the noise

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is harder. The only human sound
that penetrates it is the old conductor's ai

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to the driver. If the canvas
sticks, or if weeds are making a

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block, then the young man in
front slows his engine down and wipes his

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forehead with his hand. Reaping goes
on until nine at night. No strange

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man sits on the Reaper, but
one of Millgate's best men, the most

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trustworthy, the most faithful, the
Wagoner, a man well over sixty,

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with side whiskers, gray eyes,
a long nose, and a forehead and

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chin carved out of granite on his
head, a flat white awake hat on

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his bent back, a white jacket. When he speaks, his mouth moves

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sideways. First. There's always a
spot of dried blood on his lip.

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When he smiles, a tooth stump
appears like an ancient fossil. He talks

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slowly, stopping to spit now and
then every day of his life. He

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gets up at half past three,
now mounted on the high iron seat,

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a crumpled sack for a saddle.
He rise like some old charioteer, a

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Hercules, with great bowed back,
head jutting out, chin straight, a

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hard weathered look about his face,
and in his heart discussed this year for

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the first time, they are using
a motor engine to pull a reaper around

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instead of horses. He lived for
his horses. He's the wagoner, and

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they are his job. If one
falls ill, he sleeps with it.

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He believes in horses. But speaking
of the motor he says, she is

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all right, when she's all right, with a look that ends the sentence

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for him. In his youth he
had reaped with a side. This walter

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wood is a neat arrangement. You
can't deny that one bit of the mechanism

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works as a divider, while a
big light kind of wooden windmill arrangement,

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continually revolving, beats the corn down
into a flat pan, from which it's

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carried on a canvas slide up an
incline, then shot over and down the

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other side in a continual long flat
stream like yellow matting. And then the

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needle, the threadled as he calls
it, nips in somewhere, binding the

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flat masses into separate, neat round
sheaves pitched out every few moments with perfect

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precision by a three pronged iron fork
above the one big heavy central wheel.

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The charioteer is shaken and jolted from
nine till nine in front on another iron

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seat by the box like engine.
The driver works behind runs a red faced

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laborer clearing corners. The motor has
to run out the full length of its

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cogged iron wheeled bands before it can
turn, and the sheaves dropped on the

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last round get in the way,
so at every corner they have to be

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lifted and set back. The laborer
clears, then runs after the machine,

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now halfway up the field, stops
at the next corner, stoops once more

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to lift and shift three sheaves,
then runs again. This laborer was a

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man of forty with a face as
naive as a boy of fifteen. Though

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getting bald, his eyes were young
his mouth loose, untrained as a child's.

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He's touched, as we say,
and had never really grown up.

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He slept in the attic ate in
the kitchen and worked, but was not

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responsible. He was always given light
jobs, walking with the clappers, weeding,

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cleaning sties, clearing. His greatest
friend was a boy of twelve.

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On Sundays, they'd laugh for an
hour at nothing. Going to the coasts

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for the first time. Last year, he was so taken by a Punch

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and Judy show that he never saw
the sea. His smile was the most

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ridiculous thing in the world. He
blushed continually, panted, grinned like some

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boy caught kissing, and was always
apologetic. Lightning made him hide his head,

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and he was afraid of engines.
Their regularity upset him. Running behind

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the reaper, this quick moving,
noisy thing, smelling of oil made up

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of sliding chains appalled him. There
were five wheels at an angle, and

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all the time an oil wet,
black flat chain band ran around over them.

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Underneath the heavy central wheel ran round
and round. To the imbecile,

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the wagoner's courage appeared supernatural. There
should have been another man to take two

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corners, but all hands were wanted, so the laborer had to run all

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day. It was hot, no
wind, no shade. If he looked

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up for a moment, the hills
and distant elms appeared bright blue. The

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big field itself was ablaze with color, wheat like brown, burnt amber poppies,

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small white daisies, thistles. When
the engines stopped, the only sounds

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were plaintive anxious bird calls from the
center of the field. Sometimes a rabbit

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or hair looked out, then bolted
back. Once five graceful, sleek brown

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pheasants ran out toward the hedge,
then lost their nerve, turned and went

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running back. The sun shone steadily. Sheaves picked up by the laborer made

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his hand smell oily. Their string
band raised a blister on his forefinger.

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Very often he grabbed hold of nettles
and sharp thistles, and the backs of

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his hands were swollen and covered with
stings. Blue butterflies twirled in front of

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his face. Poe maws flew out
when his hat fell off. He had

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no time to get it. The
sweat ran down his egg shaped forehead to

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his long, square, hairy chin. Though he could shave himself on sundays.

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He looked a little like a monkey. When the engine stuck, the

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wagoner asked, in his slow,
flat voice, won't she speak. She's

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not coming out, was the youth's
reply. Once the driver was thrown up

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afoot when the motor went over a
hole, he yelled, Men are often

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killed by the reaper. The imbecile
got the startled look of a child seeing

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snakes at the zoo. Each time
the engine snorted or the wagoner called out

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ay, a spurt of water ran
down his spine. The blood was beating

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in his head. The sun shone
mercilessly on his pale bald patch. The

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field began to bounce before his eyes, bloodshot from stooping. When the yards

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of bindweed shackled the machinery, the
wagoner just turned his head a sign for

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the laborer, who had to run
had to catch and tear away the long

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green chains full of small pink flowers. By four o'clock they were overtaking him

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Before he got round. The driver
had to turn more sharply. The canvas

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stuck. Don't you do that again, the old wagoner scolded, with stern

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eye, you'll turn us over.
The engine stuck when they tried to start

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it again. For half an hour, the young driver tinkered with the tools

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from the box on, screwing small
oily nuts, testing wires, feeling levers,

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and in desperation, wiped his black, dripping hands on his hair.

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Twenty times. He turned the starting
handle, but she wouldn't speak. Then

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suddenly, with a sound like a
pistol shot, the engine fired. The

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machine ran backward, upsetting the laborer, and before he could move, the

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central wheel ran over his ankles.
When the imbecile came to himself, they

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were still at the corner. His
feet were tied up in a jacket.

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He was suffering horribly, yet seemed
unable to focus it. But seeing the

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red and yellow reaper standing close beside
his head, some memory soaked his face

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with sweat. He fainted, brandy
was fetched. They lifted him on to

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a hurdle. When he recovered again, the whole group were still at the

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corner. His employer stood there,
stout, well dressed and anxious in his

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gray felt hat, dark coated trousers. The driver stood there too, and

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the old wagoner corn was still up
in the middle of the field. The

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laborer looked surprised at seeing sky before
him as a rule, when he started

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he saw fields, he turned his
face. The men watching saw his round,

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boyish eyes project at sight of something
red and wet and sticky like the

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mess they made out sheep killing splashing
on the stubble, while two broken boots

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lay oozing the same stuff in a
large pool of it. Following this look,

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the old wagoner said slowly, er, my boy, them are yours?

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Tears were running down his stiff,
dry cheeks. How do you feel,

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asked the farmer. His laborer blushed, then whispered to the wagoner,

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what's happening, mister Collard? Why
you've a lost your feet? For yet

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another minute, the imbecile lay panting, shy, self conscious under his master's

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eye until the idea struck him once
more. Whispering to the wagoner, he

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said, help me up, I'll
go home, Willie. You can't walk,

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said the old man, simply,
you can't walk no more. The

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black hair stiffened suddenly on the idiot's
chin. He had understood that in those

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bleeding, mangled boots his feet were
lying. He began to cry, and

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then, catching sight of his master, smiled as though to apologize. The

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end of the Reaper by Dorothy Easton,