For the husbandman, what a day of gladness it is when he goes out to see whether his sown fields are ripe — and when he sees the eared wheat-stalks, flushed red-gold, waving in the soft-breathing winds! Vash! he says — the time of reaping is come. Full of rejoicing he returns home and gives the glad tidings to all the household; straightway they make ready, the stout hard-working young men of the house, and if they be not enough, sometimes they hire day-wage laborers besides; and so the harvest of the fields begins.
There was a good custom among the village people from the days of the forefathers: whosever field ripened first, neighbors and friends went to his aid; first they reaped his field, and then he in his turn went and reaped theirs; and thus, helping one another, laboring in common, the fields of the whole village were reaped entire. Though this fair custom has now much declined — whence it is plain that the fervor of the fellowship-spirit has waned as well.
Strive, Tornik, to reap your field with your own hand, and stand in need of no man's help. For this I will tell you a fable, which is written in many places. There is a little lark, a bird by nature clever, that keeps itself unseen; she sets her nest in the sown fields, where seed and grain are never wanting. Knowing beforehand the danger to come upon her young, she gives them counsel in good time: let the nestlings listen, and tell her when the master of the field, as reaping-time draws near, comes to see whether the field is ripe. Coming the first time, he says: my boy, the field is near to ripe; go, speak to our friends — let them come to our aid, and we will reap the field. The heedful nestlings tell this to their mother. The mother says: be easy, my young ones; so long as the master waits upon friends, the field will not be reaped. Another time the owner of the harvest comes and sees that the field is fully ripe. He says: my boy, the friends have not come; give word at least to our neighbors — let them come and help us, turn for turn; what would it cost? we too will go and help them. The quick-witted nestlings tell these words to their mother. Again the mother says the same: rest secure, my young ones; the field will not be reaped so long as the business hangs upon the help of friends. A third time the master comes, and sees that reaping-time is past, and the wheat-stalks dried and turned brittle. Oh, my boy! he says, we have deceived ourselves; there is no hope now from friends nor from neighbors; go quickly, fetch the sickles — we shall reap our field ourselves. Now, my young ones, I believe that the field will indeed be reaped: rise, and let me carry you elsewhere.
Let this fable be a lesson to you, Tornik; never put it out of your mind, and never be cheated of your hope. The diligent husbandman must reap with his own hand the field he has plowed and sown; for it may chance that the helping neighbor's field comes ripe for harvest together with yours — is it to be thought that he will leave his own harvest and come reap your field? See to it that reaping-time does not slip past; for then the fields are reaped with difficulty, and by the shedding of the ears the loss is great.
And when at reaping-time you hire day-wage reapers, care for them well, both in bread and in victuals; for there are some who deal cruelly with the laboring field hands, till they are left drained of strength and broken with toil. When the reaping laborers eat their midday bread — how kind-hearted you will be, Tornik, if in that noonday swelter you let the wearied workmen, in the shade of the stacks, make pillows of the wheat sheaves and draw at least an hour's sweet sleep; then let them rise, whet their sickles, and take up the reaping. Many other provinces keep this custom; it is only the district of Van that deals with its laborers without conscience.
And do you know, Tornik, that our reapers eat their fill of bread with hearty appetite? And how hurtful it is to a man's health when, allowing no pause, they rise so with full stomachs, and stoop, and pull the sickle! Leave alone that in the economy of the thing it is a loss to the master too; for the reaping laborer is weary already, and eating bread he grows heavier still. It is natural that, setting to work at once, he cannot labor with a will. But when he has been refreshed with a little sleep and gathered strength, the heaviness of the stomach lightens — see then with what briskness he swings the sickle, so that for one hour of sleep he pays back double labor.
Do you remember, Tornik, how in my former lessons I spoke in passing of the scythe — that it has a very great advantage over the sickle? Only you must be beforehand and mow the wheat in its due season, while the grains do not yet shed; and it is rather those fields that should be mown with the scythe whose growth is thick, grass-mingled, and tall of stalk; while those fields whose growth is sparse and short must be reaped with the sickle. Would that you might go, Tornik, and see the reaping-festival of the strong-armed laborers of Mush, above all of the district of Hatsyats:1 they know no sickle; everything that grows on the face of the ground they sweep clean with the scythe, and they care nothing that grains fall to the earth — for theirs are soils so wondrous that the fallen grains bury themselves in them, and the autumn rain coming upon them, you will see the mown field grown green again; and so, doubly fruitful without labor, the fields are reaped anew the following year. In mowing, indeed, and in the binding of great sheaves, the husbandman of Mush is past compare, though in the other branches of husbandry he is not so proficient.
Bringing thus briefly to a close the lesson on the reaping of the fields, there came to my mind that thing which the Lord God commanded Moses: not to glean either vineyard or field, for the small clusters and the fallen ears are the portion of the orphans and the poor.2 This commandment of God's tender mercy your old Papik hands down to you, his Tornik: be kind-hearted and love mercy. We have no vineyard, but fields we have; at reaping-time we must suffer the village poor, the widows, the orphans, to come gather the fallen ears and furnish out the bread of their life. They are the destitute part of our village; they have neither plowing nor sowing — how then are they to live? To such as can work and take a day's wage, a share of work must be given; but there are those who are old men and aged women, or little children, from whom we can require no work at all in exchange. It is for such above all that Christ has spoken: "Lend to them of whom ye hope not to receive."3