Hey Hey up now Maurice! Up with that last bale! Aye that’s right Set it there lad like a coping on this freshbuilt wall of hay. Right, that’s the harvest done. The last hot dusty load. Crack us them beercans now Let’s drink me lads to th’harvest, and the work we’ve done under the almighty sun, let’s cool us selves awhile in this here welcome shade – and soon off home, leave Gordon to his milking and the fields to their bright silence, free of hay and men and busy busying machines. Hey look now, here the old cows come! I wonder do they notice these great heaps of food, as they come swaying past – I expect they do – says Gordon, eyeing the sweet warm stack, his face hot weathered, hat caked smooth with years of muck – and, as Autumn winters towards spring, each bale dismantled may cast back his mind to sweat and pulse of summer and the splendid harvest-grind