What a happy day it is for the farmer when he goes out to see whether his fields have ripened, and finds the eared wheat flushed a ruddy red, rippling under the soft breath of the wind. Vash! he says. The reaping-time has come. He goes home full of joy and brings the good news to the whole household. The strong young workers of the house get ready at once, and if there are not enough of them, sometimes day-laborers are hired as well. And so the reaping of the fields begins.
The village people had a good custom from our forefathers' time. Whoever's field ripened first, the neighbors and friends went to help him. They reaped his field first, and then he went in his turn and reaped theirs, and so, helping one another and working in common, the fields of the whole village were reaped from end to end. That fine custom has fallen away badly now, and from that you can see that the warmth of the neighborly spirit has fallen away with it.
Work, Tornik, so that you reap your own field with your own hand and never have to depend on anyone's help. Let me tell you a fable about that, one that has been written down in many places. There is a bird, the lark, clever by nature and good at keeping herself out of sight, and she sets her nest in the sown fields, where seed and grain are never short. Knowing ahead of time the danger her nestlings will be in, she warns them early. Listen, she tells them, and let me know when the master of the field comes out to see whether the field is ripe, as the reaping-time draws near. The first time he comes, he says, son, the field is nearly ripe. Go and talk to our friends, and let them come and help us reap it. The nestlings listen and tell their mother. The mother says, never worry, little ones. As long as the master is waiting on his friends, the field will not be reaped. The next time, the master of the harvest comes and sees that the field is fully ripe. Son, he says, our friends have not come. Get word at least to our neighbors. Let them come and help us turn for turn, what would it cost them? We will go and help them in return. The sharp-eared nestlings tell their mother what he said. Again the mother gives the same answer. Rest easy, my little ones. The field will not be reaped as long as the whole business hangs on the help of friends. The third time the master comes, and he sees that the reaping-time has gone by and the wheat has dried and turned brittle. Oh, son, he says, we have fooled ourselves. There is nothing to hope for now, not from friends and not from neighbors. Go quickly and fetch the sickles. We will reap our field ourselves. Now, my little ones, I believe the field really will be reaped. Up, and let me carry you somewhere else.
Let this fable be a lesson to you, Tornik. Never let it out of your mind, and never be left waiting in vain. The hardworking farmer has to reap with his own hand the field he plowed and sowed, because the neighbor who would help you may well have a field that comes ripe at the same time as yours. Is he going to leave his own harvest and come reap your field? Make sure the reaping-time does not slip past you, or the reaping goes hard, the ears shed, and the loss is heavy.
And when you hire day-laborers at reaping-time, look after them well, in bread and in hot food both. There are some who treat their field laborers cruelly, until they are drained of strength and broken with work. When the reapers eat their midday bread, what a kind heart you will show, Tornik, if in that noonday swelter you let the tired workers lie down in the shade of the stacks, make pillows of the wheat sheaves, and sleep sweetly for an hour at least. Then let them get up, whet their sickles, and take up the reaping again. Many other provinces keep this custom. Only the district of Van deals with its laborers without a conscience.
And do you know, Tornik, that our reapers eat their fill of bread with a hearty appetite? And how bad is that for a man's health, when, with no pause allowed him at all, he gets up on a full stomach and bends and pulls the sickle? Never mind that in plain economy it is a loss for the master too. The reaper is tired already, and the food weighs him down all the more. Naturally, if he sets to work at once, he cannot put his back into it. But once a little sleep has revived him and given him back his strength, and the heaviness in his stomach lifts, watch how briskly he swings the sickle then, paying back the hour of sleep with twice the work.
Do you remember, Tornik, how in my earlier lessons I mentioned in passing that the scythe has a very great advantage over the sickle? Only you have to be early, and mow the wheat in its own season, while the grain is not yet shedding. The fields to mow with the scythe are the ones where the growth is thick, mixed with grass, and tall in the stalk, while fields whose growth is sparse and short have to be reaped with the sickle. I wish you could go, Tornik, and see the great spectacle of the strong-armed reapers of Mush at their mowing, above all those of the district of Hatsyats.1 They know nothing of the sickle. Everything that grows out of the face of the ground they sweep clean with the scythe, and they do not care in the least that the grains fall to the earth, because their soil is so marvelous that the fallen grain buries itself in it. When the autumn rain comes down on it, you see the mown field has turned green again, and so, yielding twice over with no labor at all, it is reaped again the following year. At mowing, and at binding great sheaves, the farmer of Mush truly has no equal, though he is not as good at the other branches of farming.
As I bring this short lesson on reaping to its close, something has come to my mind. The Lord God commanded Moses that neither the vineyard nor the field should be gleaned, because the little clusters and the fallen ears are the portion of the orphans and the poor.2 That is God's merciful commandment, and your old Papik hands it down to you, Tornik. Be kind-hearted and merciful. We have no vineyard, but we have fields, and at reaping-time we must let the poor of the village, the widows and the orphans, come and gather the fallen ears and win the bread they live on. They are the destitute of our village. They have no plowing and no sowing, so what are they to live on? Those who can work and earn a day's wage must be given a share of the work. But there are others, old men and old women, or small children, from whom we can ask no work at all in return. It is for these above all that Christ has spoken. "Lend to those from whom you have no hope of receiving."3