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Updated: June 21, 2025
There was stillness all round, not a sound... everything living was hiding away from the heat. "Yegor Vlassitch!" the huntsman suddenly heard a soft voice. He started and, looking round, scowled. Beside him, as though she had sprung out of the earth, stood a pale-faced woman of thirty with a sickle in her hand. She was trying to look into his face, and was smiling diffidently.
The speaker finished what she had to say, while the eyes of her three hearers were sometimes on her face and sometimes on the wide cornfield beyond the open window, where the harvest moon, as yet only a brilliant sickle, was rising. The Earth Bread without the "Bread of Life" within; even in Jenny's primitive mind, there was a mingling of the two ideas, which brought a quiet joy.
Tall walls of fir-crowned rocks passed by their eyes, all fused and dim; gray piles of monastic buildings, with the dull chimes tolling the hour, flashed on their sight to be lost in a moment; corn-lands yellowing for the sickle, fields with the sheaves set-up, orchards ruddy with fruit, and black barn-roofs lost in leafy nests; villages lying among their hills like German toys caught in the hollow of a guarding hand; masses of forests stretching wide, somber and silent and dark as a tomb; the shine of water's silvery line where it flowed in a rocky channel they passed them all in the soft gray of the waning night, in the white veil of the fragrant mists, in the stillness of sleep and of peace.
Brown had to get down on his hands and knees, with gardener's shears, to clip the turfed borders and banks, and take a sickle to the hummocks.
Presently they passed through a field of corn ready for the sickle, and looking like a sea of gold as it waved to and fro in the breeze. "Is this eaten or not?" said the young man. Not understanding his meaning, the old man replied, "I don't know."
A young moon gleamed aloft, looking like a slender sickle thrust into the heavens to reap an over-abundant harvest of stars. I paused irresolutely. There was a deep silence everywhere. I felt faint and giddy: curious flashes of light danced past my eyes, and my limbs shook like those of a palsied old man.
This being the seasons of harvest in the northern counties of England, Wallace carried his reapers, not to lay their sickle to the field, but, with their swords, to open themselves a way into the Southron granaries. The careful victor, meanwhile, provided for the wants of his friends on the other side of the Esk.
Cape Ann he called from his charming Turkish benefactor, "Cape Tragabigzanda"; the three islands in front of it, the "Three Turks' Heads"; and the Isles of Shoals he simply describes: "Smyth's Isles are a heape together, none neare them, against Acconimticus." This Cape is made by the maine Sea on the one side, and a great bay on the other in the form of a sickle."
His way to the mill was by the 'Sickle and Sheaf'; and it was not easy for him to pass there without being drawn into the bar, either by his own desire for drink, or through the invitation of some pleasant companion, who was lounging in front of the tavern." "There may have been something even more impelling than his love of drink," said I. "What?"
There is but one heap from all the long struggle. He has 'sowed much and brought home little. What shall we take with us out of our busy years as their net result? A very small sack will be large enough to hold the harvest that many of us have reaped. 'Put in the sickle, for the harvest is ripe.
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