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Speaker 1: The Reaper by Dorothy Easton. Millgate was a rich farmer,

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owning his own machines, not like those poorer, smaller men

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who hired an engine from a neighbor. He has his

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reaping machine, a red and yellow walter Wood Cleveland brand.

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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,

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

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the noise is harder. The only human sound that penetrates

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it is the old conductor's oi to the driver. If

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the canvas sticks, or if weeds are making a block,

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then the young man in front slows his engine down

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and wipes his forehead with his hand. Reaping goes on

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until nine at night. No strange man sits on the Reaper,

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but one of Millgate's best men, the most trustworthy, the

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

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

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and chin carved out of granite on his head, a flat,

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wide awake hat on his bent back, a white jacket.

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When he speaks, his mouth moves sideways. First. There's always

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a spot of dried blood on his lip. When he smiles,

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a tooth stump appears like an ancient fossil. He talks slowly,

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

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He gets up at half past three, now mounted on

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the high iron seat, a crumpled sack for a saddle,

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he rides like some old charioteer, a Hercules, with great

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bowed back, head jutting out, chin straight, a hard weathered

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look about his face, and in his heart discussed this

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year for the first time, they are using a motor

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engine to pull a reaper around instead of horses. He

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lived for his horses. He's the wagoner, and they are

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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,

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she is all right when she's all right, with a

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look that ends a sentence for him. In his youth

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he had reaped with a scythe This walter Wood is

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a neat arrangement. You can't deny that one bit of

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the mechanism works as a divider while a big light

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kind of wooden windmill arrangement continually revolving beats the corn

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down into a flat pan, from which it's carried on

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a canvas slut up an incline, then shot over and

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down the other side in a continual long flat stream

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like yellow matting. And then the needle, the threadle, as

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he calls it, nips in somewhere, binding the flat masses

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into separate neat round sheaves pitched out every few moments

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with perfect precision by a three pronged iron fork above

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the one big heavy central wheel. The charioteer is shaken

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and jolted from nine till nine in front on another

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iron seat by the box like engine the driver works

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behind runs a red faced laborer clearing corners. The motor

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has to run out the full length of its cogged

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iron wheel bands before it can turn, and the sheaves

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dropped on the last round get in the way, so

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at every corner they have to be lifted and set back.

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The laborer clears, then runs after the machine, now halfway

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up the field, stops at the next corner, stoops once

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more to lift and shift three sheaves, then runs again.

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This laborer was a man of forty with a face

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as naive as a boy of fifteen, though getting bald

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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,

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but was not responsible. He was always given light jobs,

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walking with the clappers, weeding, cleaning sties, clearing. His greatest

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friend was a boy of twelve. On Sundays, they'd laugh

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for an hour at nothing. Going to the the coasts

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

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by a Punch and Judy show that he never saw

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the sea. His smile was the most ridiculous thing in

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the world. He blushed continually, panted, grinned like some boy

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

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his head, and he was afraid of engines. Their regularity

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upset him. Running behind the reaper, this quick moving, noisy thing,

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smelling of oil made up of sliding chains appalled him.

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There were five wheels at an angle, and all the

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time an oil wet, black flat chain band ran around

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over them. Underneath the heavy central wheel ran round and round.

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To the imbecile, The wagoner's courage appeared supernatural. There should

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have been another man to take two corners, but all

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hands were wanted, so the laborer had to run all day.

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

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up for a moment, the hills and distant elms appeared

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bright blue. The big field itself was ablaze with color,

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wheat like brown, burnt amber poppies, small white daisies, thistles.

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When the engines stopped, the only sounds were plaintive anxious

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bird calls from the center of the field. Sometimes a

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rabbit or hare looked out, then bolted back. Once five graceful,

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sleek brown pheasants ran out toward the hedge, then lost

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their nerve, turned and went running back. The sun shone steadily.

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Sheaves picked up by the laborer made his hand smell oily.

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Their string band raised a blister on his forefinger. Very

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often he grabbed hold of nettles and sharp thistles, and

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the backs of his hands were swollen and covered with stings.

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Blue butterflies twirled in front of his face. Pale maws

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flew out. When his hat fell off, he had no

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time to get it. The sweat ran down his egg

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shaped forehead to his long, square, hairy chin. Though he

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could shave himself on Sundays. He looked a little like

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a monkey. When the engine stuck, the wagoner asked, in

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his slow, flat voice, won't she speak. She's not coming out,

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was the youth's reply. Once the driver was thrown up

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a foot when the motor went over a hole, he yelled,

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Men are often killed by the reaper. The imbecile got

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the startled look of a child seeing snakes at the zoo.

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Each time the engine snorted or the wagoner called out, oh,

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a spurt of water ran down his spine. The blood

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was beating in his head. The sun shone mercilessly on

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his pale bald patch. The field began to bounce before

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his eyes, bloodshot from stooping. When the yards of bindweed

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shackled the machinery, the wagoner just turned his head a

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sign for the laborer, who had to run. Had to

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catch and tear away the long green chains full of

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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.

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The canvas stuck. Don't ye do that again, the old

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wagoner scolded, with stern eye, you'll turn us over the

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engine stuck when they tried to start it again. For

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half an hour, the young driver tinkered with the tools

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from the box, unscrewing 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.

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Then suddenly, with a sound like a pistol shot, the

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engine fired. The machine ran backward, upsetting the laborer, and

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before he could move, the central wheel ran over his ankles.

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When the imbecile came to himself, they were still at

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

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He was suffering horribly, yet seemed unable to focus it,

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but seeing the red and yellow reaper standing close beside

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his head, some memory soaked his face with sweat. He fainted,

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brandy was fetched. They lifted him onto a hurdle. When

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he recovered again, the whole group were still at the corner.

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His employer stood there, stout, well dressed and anxious in

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his gray felt hat, dark coated trousers. The driver stood

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there too, and the old wagoner corn was still up

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in the middle of the field. The laborer looked surprised,

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at seeing sky before him as a rule, when he

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started he saw fields, he turned his face. The men

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watching saw his round, boyish eyes project at sight of

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something red and wet and sticky like the mess they

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made out sheep killing splashing on the stubble, while two

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broken boots lay oozing the same stuff in a large

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pool of it. Following this look, the old wagoner said slowly, er,

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my boy, them are yours? Tears were running down his stiff,

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dry cheeks. How do you feel, asked the farmer. His

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laborer blushed, then whispered to the wagoner, what's happening, mister Collard?

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Why you've a lost your feet? For yet another minute,

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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

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the wagoner, he said, help me up, I'll go home, Willie.

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You can't walk, said the old man, simply, you can't

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walk no more. The black hair stiffened suddenly on the

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idiot's chin. He had understood that in those bleeding, mangled

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

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catching sight of his master, smiled as though to apologize

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the end of the Reaper by Dorothy Easton,