Chapter V: A Walk through the Fields

The next morning, Mr. Mansfield asked the little boys if they were disposed for a walk. Arthur replied that he should like it very much; but Charles said he would rather stay at home with his grandmamma; accordingly they set off without him.

“What pretty purple flowers grow in that field!” observed Arthur, when they had proceeded a little way. “Pray, grandpapa, what are they?”

“That is a field of clover,” replied Mr. Mansfield; “and it will soon be cut for hay.”

_Arthur._ I never saw such pretty hay as that.

_Grandpapa._ Oh, there will be no beauty in it. On the contrary, it looks much coarser and browner than what is made of common grass, which is called meadow hay.

_Arthur._ What becomes of the flowers then?

_Grandpapa._ They dry and wither away. You do not suppose they would live when cut down. Did you ever see how hay is made?

_Arthur._ Yes, a great many times. A number of men and women go into a field and turn the grass, and then they put it into cocks, and afterwards make a stack of it.

_Grandpapa._ Why do they do all that?

_Arthur._ To make it into hay.

_Grandpapa._ Yes. But why does turning it about make grass into hay?

Arthur said he did not know.

_Grandpapa._ Then I will tell you. The grass when cut down is full of moisture. If you squeeze a blade in your fingers, it will be damp; and that dampness is called sap. Now, while the sap is in it the grass will not keep. If you were to make it into a stack, it would soon rot, and smell so putrid you would not like to go near it. But when it is turned about to the sun and the wind, till the sap is dried away, there is no more danger, and you may stack it, and keep it for a long time.

_Arthur._ But if I had a field, grandpapa, I would never make hay. My horses should go in and eat the grass when they wanted it; and I would save myself the trouble of working for them.

_Grandpapa._ I am afraid, Arthur, you would make a lazy farmer. Do not you know that nothing in this world is to be had without trouble? and if you are so very sparing of your pains, I fear you will not succeed very well.

_Arthur._ Why not, pray, sir?

_Grandpapa._ Did you ever take notice of the grass in the winter?

_Arthur._ Yes; I believe it is then short and black.

_Grandpapa._ The blackness is nothing but the earth among it; it is very thin at that time of the year. Did you ever observe a field just before it was cut for hay?

_Arthur._ Oh, yes. Do you know, grandpapa, we all took a walk in a field a little while ago; and the grass was so very long that it came up to the top of my legs; and little Kate cried, and could not get on at all.

_Grandpapa._ You see then, that as there is much grass in summer and but little in winter, your horses at one time would have more than they could eat, and at another would starve. Yet this would be owing to your own fault: for God gives enough for the whole year; and all he requires of us is, that we should in the season of plenty lay up for the time of need.