Democratic Sentinel, Volume 14, Number 39, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 October 1890 — CORN IS IN THE SHOCK. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

CORN IS IN THE SHOCK.

THE END OF THE FARMERS* YEAR OF TOIL. Old and New Way* or Raining a Crop - Maize Can Be Gathered Only by Hand —lha Modern Way of Shocking < orn— Hippy Hulking Been of the Olden Days

HE harvest of corn is W here. An army of stalks, all straight and strong-jointed. \l\ stands in close ranks A~J against the assault of famine. Each warrior bears above his crest a plume which waves defiance to a world. Each bears f\* 'figjat his head a falchion -eSlaskeen as a Damasen6 blade, in a heath that came from the workshop of

time. Winter is coming. Across-the hills the breezes blow From fields of frost, from shrouds of snow. Gaunt hunger is marching upon the people. This guard of honor, which has stood in reserve all summer, is massed in •hocks, is mustered in cribs, is detached In cargoes and sent forward to the conflict The battle rages as the nights lengthen. It grows fiercer as the sun crosses the line and starts north again. The scattering volleys of retreating •quads fall on the air as winter changes to spring again, and victory crowns the conquering hosts of corn as tiny blades In June shoot upward toward the sun. Do you remember corn-planting days? Boys went barefooted then for the first time since that distant summer away beyond tho winter, which lingered an age. Grass was green in the fence-rows; wood

violets bloomed in the forest; the willow was thronged with foliage, and even the oak and hard hickory had pushed tender leaves, just the size of squirrels’ ears, out through the rough, forbidding bark. Half over the field was a stretch of yellow sand, where the sun beat so fiercely that naked feet were burned. Not a atump nor a stone in the field; all the wide stretch from fence to fence one level of mellow earth. An expert went ahead with a “marker,” shambling along

straight across the field at a target stake, and shifting cogs and plates of steel have sunk the seed and covered it well with a speed unapproachpble in a former day. As the slender stalks rise up and ask for help against their enemies, the weeds, prompt allies of famine, the same young- man, with garments little stained by toil, can ride adown the rows and tend in a day more than a score j)t men could have served before. But when autumn comes —when frosts tiave laid a modest coat of gray upon the

fields of green—the giant toil stands well Intrenched. No machine can gather corn. The same old methods Walter Raleigh saw employed by Indians three hundred years ago are used to-day, and seem to defy improvement. Cornstalks will not all attain a uniform height; ears will not stand from the stem at the same angle or all put forth from the same side, and he who would gather corn must take his hands and husk it. When the ground U white with frosts of October mornings, when velvet blades have turned to harsh eimetars,.'when ears of corn once yielding to the touch are hard and rough as metal ra£ps, the poetry all goes out of farm life, and hovers like a dream about the pens of men who never won a dinner gathering corn. But the corn is made and must be garnered. TheHJ is no flinching, no turning back from ifjk«ome labor. Toil has hardened hands Ad Inured all to rough labor. The wagon, made doubly capacious by great •lde-boards, is driven into the field at the hither side; the team and the wheels •twaddle one row, while on either side two pr three more are taken by the huskers. !The weakest worker in the party is assigned to the task of following the wagon on the “down row,” lifting its ttroken stalks, gathering the grain, and tossing it into the retreating vehicle. Farmers' girls are often impressed into 41m service in corn gathering time, for

the sea c on is short and ranch remain* to be done before grim winter'may be defied. A husking peg four inches long, fashioned of tone, steel or hickory, and bound to the inner fingers with a >trip of leather, arms all the men, but modern Ruths who help their brothers scorn such assistance and part the stubborn husks on three stiff, rheumatic legs, tracing the lines which the droppers must follow. School has been “took up,” but boys have a holiday; they are needed at home.

And each one joins in the march across the yielding ground, dropping three grains in the cross of the marker. Men come behind with hoes and cover the corn with mellow earth, dexterously tucking them into beds from which they will rise enriched. A burial is going on in full faith of a resurrection, and with abundant assurance of return increased a thousandfold. Such dinners as they had in corn-planting time! Spring chickens had just risen to the dignity of “fries,” the garden contributed a vegetable zest, and oceans of sweet, fresh milk could be had for the asking. Back to the work in tho afternoon when tho glamor had worn off; persistent toil till tho field was won, and all hands marched together from tjie farther corner, whore all the scanty seed in the bottom of the baskets went to make a “king hill” to lead the rising grain.

Warmer suns shone on tho little mounds where the grains were hidden; gentle dews and drenching rains softened the bony shell which held the germ, and broad fields spread away with bright green lines tracing the promise of a bounteous yield. A little later and the shovel plow, the hoe, and even the hand must loosen the dirt and nurse the roots must destroy every life that could drain the fertility that belonged to corn—and, later still, when summer suns shone hottest, the rank green stalks rose to a man's height, hiding the ground and spreading long, broad blades to gather the good with which the air was charged. Tassels shoot from the verdant crown, and soft, silky pouches push from the side the crown of King Corn and the scepter of his reign. Improved machinery has lessened the labors of the farm life since those early days. Instead of the basket of seed and the single hoes then following the marker a tailor-clad young man rides with thumb and lingers. Later still than tho husking peg comes the husking glove,

all bristling with stubs of steel and covering the hand whei*e attack is rudest. The wagon filled, if the field bo large, is driven to the crib for emptying, while another takes its place, that the work may go on without abating. Along the margins of the many corn fields light pens of rails are built, a dozen feet square, often half a dozen adjoining, which serve to house the crop till it is consumed by stock or until a price is offered that can tempt the farmer. But when that last wagon-load goes creaking from the field, forcing a progress across the crackling stalks, when the waiting and the toil of the year are summed in the words, “The harvest is won,” a consciousness of hard work well done brings somewhat of reward. The spirits rise with the end in view. The memories of tho pleasant things come back again. The dust, the wounds, the bleeding fingers, are forgotten. Tho girls sit down and pick the Spanish needles from their skirts, dismiss the harvest past and talk of other harvests of the heart.

But, maybe, the grass was short this year, hay is scarce and corn fodder will bo in stfong demand. If so, the rustic forco attacks tho withering crop, each man folding a, hill in his left arm, while with his right he smites tho stalks near the roots, severing them at a blow with a stefel blade made of a broken scythe or bought at the store in all the glory of red paint. Ten hills square, or a hundred, arc gathered in the shocks, which rest as a base against a central four, whose heads are bent and bound together like the ragged tent-poles of a wigwam. Later in thA season this fodder is hauled to the barn and husked, or shocks are broken open in mild moonlight nights of late fall, and around each heap, ravaging the stalks of their wealth of grain, gather the youth of the neighborhood to

help with the work and to traffic in the raciest gossip of the realm. This custom is all that Is left of tho olden husking bee. , . Formerly corn was not husked, but “pulled,” shucks and all, and hauled to th* baru to be heaped up in a great pile

4 % against the double doors, there to wait until such time as farmers chose. Then as winter drew on husking-bees were in order. Lads and lasses in the neighborhood were hidden to the festival. They improvised seats of boxes, pails and inverted baskets. “Partners” was the rule, and when any youth found an ear of red corn he was entitled of right to a kiss from his companion. Cider served with a free hand and fried cakes and pumpkin pie rewarded the toilers. After the “bee” was over girls must be taken home. Happy the youth if the moon had gone down, if the way were long and the bridges narrow. And happy the nfaid if tho man who led her through that night's shadows proved all that her fancy promised for him. Her granddaughters know no husking bees, and arts acquired in distant schools must take the place of bright red ears of corn.

THE MODERN WAY OF SHUCKING IT.

IMPROVISED CRIBS IS THE FIELD.

AN OLD-TIME HUSKING BEE.

CUTTING CORN.

THE BEGINNING AND THE END OF THE SHUCKING SEASON.