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Updated: May 21, 2025
Another development was the combination harvester and thresher used on the larger farms of the West. This machine does not cut the wheat close to the ground, but the cutter-bar, over twenty-five feet in length, takes off the heads. The wheat is separated from the chaff and automatically weighed into sacks, which are dumped as fast as two expert sewers can work.
There were golden-brown danais, with their black-striped wings, jetty troilus with an attempt at trailers, big asterias, velvety black with longer trails and wide bands of yellow dots. Coenia were most numerous of all and to the Harvester wonderfully attractive in rich, subdued colours with a wealth of markings and eye spots.
"Too hot to-day," cautioned the Harvester. "Too rough walking. Wait until fall, and I have a treat there for you. Another flower I want you to love because I do." "I will," said the Girl promptly. "I feel it in my heart." "Well I am glad you feel something besides the ache of fever," said the Harvester.
"Hurry man!" groaned the doctor in a whispered aside, and the Harvester ran to the car, awakened the driver and told him he had a clear road to Onabasha, to speed up. "Where to?" asked the driver. "Dickson, of the First National." In a few minutes the car stopped before the residence and the Harvester made an attack on the front door. Presently the man came.
"Have you done all you can do?" asked the Harvester. "Yes." "You believe her going out?" "Yes." The Harvester turned to Doctor Harmon. "Do you concur in that?" "Yes." Then to the nurse, "And you?" "Yes." "Then," said the Harvester, "all of you are useless. Get out of here. I don't want your atmosphere. If you can believe only in death, leave us!
You'll raise a temperature, and the Harvester will pitch me into the lake. You are free, child, of course! You always have been. I understood the awful pressure that was on you with the very first glimpse I had of your mother. Who was she, Ruth?" "She never would tell me." "She thought you would appeal to her people?" "She knew I would! I couldn't have helped it." "Would you like to know?"
His head swam, but the Harvester set his feet firmly, arose, and carried his Dream Girl back to outdoor life. When he reached the chair, she begged him to go a few steps farther to the bench on the lake shore. "I am afraid," said the man. "It's so warm. There can't be any difference in the air. Just a minute."
Now I'll call off the valiant police and go home and take a good, sound sleep. Haven't had many since I first saw her." So Betsy trotted down the valley, up the embankment, crossed the railroad, over the levee across Singing Water, and up the hill to the cabin. As they passed it, the Harvester jumped from the wagon, tossed the hitching strap to Belshazzar, and entered.
Vachel Lindsay, I suppose, wants millions not merely to love, but to detect the finer shades of the poetic art. If he set out to accomplish this dream by lowering the standards of poetry, then he would debase the public and be a traitor to his guild. But his method is uncompromising he taught the harvester not Mrs. Hemans, but Swinburne. He calls his own verse the higher vaudeville.
At his limit of calls the Harvester changed his notes and whistled and cried bits of bird talk in tone with every mellow accent and inflection he could manage. Gradually the excitement subsided, the birds flew and tilted closer, turned their sleek heads, peered with bright eyes, and ventured on and on until the very bravest, the wren and the jay, were almost in touch.
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