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150 the whetting of the mower's scythe. Often on a June morning when I was in bed, I could hear the swish of the scythe through the dewy grass, followed presently by the musical note produced by the whetstone and the blade, as the whetstone was drawn along the latter and made it vibrate. Now the lawn-mower with its mechanical rattle has usurped their place.

A happy, joyous time again was the hay-making. The village girls and lads turned out to toss the hay, and their voices rang in merry laughter, and in snatches of song. A favourite joke it was for a lad to "make sweet hay" with his favourite wench. This consisted in his twisting a rope of grass, suddenly flinging it over her shoulders, and drawing it to him with her head, till he could kiss her cheek. Of course there were struggles and exclamations and laughter. There was a pretty song sung to a rugged early melody concerning hay-making.