This scene, one of the jolliest and most sociable of the western
farm, had a charm quite aside from human companionship. The
beautiful yellow straw entering the cylinder; the clear
yellow-brown wheat pulsing out at the side; the broken straw,
chaff, and dust puffing out on the great stacker; the cheery
whistling and calling of the driver; the keen, crisp air, and the
bright sun somehow weirdly suggestive of the passage of time.
Will and Agnes had arrived at a tacit understanding of mutual love
only the night before, and Will was power-fully moved to glance
often toward the house, but feared somehow the jokes of his
companions. He worked on, therefore, methodically, eagerly; but
his thoughts were on the future-the rustle of the oak tree nearby,
the noise of whose sere leaves he could distinguish beneath the
booming snarl of the machine; on the sky, where great fleets of
clouds were sailing on the rising wind, like merchantmen bound to
some land of love and plenty.
When the Dingmans first came in, only a couple of years before,
Agnes had been at once surrounded by a swarm of suitors. Her
pleasant face and her abounding good nature made her an instant
favorite with all.
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