Scythe Calisthenics -- Then and Now

(Source:  Watson's Manual of Calisthenics, 1864)

To get a wider swath, use a wider stance with more knee bending, as shown below, at right:

Source:  ScytheConnection.com               

A report from some recent scything instruction:


Once all the peening and sharpening was done, I did an experiment with the 12 of us (including me) doing a "group calisthenics" warmup starting with David Tresemer's idea of letting one's arms hang loosely while swinging/twisting hips and torso from side to side. This progressed to doing this while having the elbows bent and hands partially closed, as if holding a scythe. This swinging progressed further to include a shifting of weight from side to side, in sync with the arms. This progressed further to have increased bending of the knee closest to the hands, while the heel of the other leg comes off the ground at the end of each left or right swing. This progressed further to have each foot move forward a couple inches as it is unweighted and the heel is raised. By now, everyone is doing the scything motion, including the forward advance with each stroke. This progressed further by having everyone slow down the pace of swinging so that it matched one's breathing, exhaling during the swing to the left, and inhaling during the return swing to the right.


It was like practicing scything without holding a scythe. It seemed to prime everyone for the actual scything that immediately followed. Right off the bat, they were doing it better than I expected, including a guy who never held a scythe before who came along with a friend. So I consider the experiment a success.









Sources:


Watson's Manual of Calisthenics: A Systematic Drill-book Without Apparatus, for Schools, Families, and Gymnasiums. With Music to Accompany the Exercises
by J. Madison Watson, 1864

Scythe Connection, Mowing Technique

Personal correspondence

The high cost of scythe stones

A tragic story published in 1854, the same year the above drawing was sketched.




SHARPENING THE SCYTHE

In the heart of a high table-land that overlooks
many square leagues of the rich scenery of
Devonshire, the best scythe-stone is found. The
whole face of the enormous cliff in which it is
contained is honeycombed with minute quarries;
half-way down there is a wagon road, entirely
formed of the sand cast out from them. To walk
along that vast soft terrace on a July evening is
to enjoy one of the most delightful scenes in
England. Forests of fir rise overhead like cloud
on cloud; through openings of these there peeps
the purple moorland stretching far southward to
the Roman Camp, and barrows from which
spears and skulls are dug continually. What-
ever may be underground, it is all soft and bright
above, with heath and wild flowers, about which
a breeze will linger in the hottest noon. Down
to the sand road the breeze does not come; there
we may walk in calm, and only see that it is
quivering among the topmost trees. From the
camp the Atlantic can be seen, but from the sand
road the view is more limited, though many a
bay and headland far beneath show where the
ocean of a past age rolled. Fossils and shells
are almost as plentiful within the cliff as the
scythe-stone itself, and wondrous bones of
extinct animals are often brought to light.

All day long, summer and winter, in the sombre
fir-groves may be heard the stroke of the
spade and the click of the hammer; a hundred
men are at work like bees upon the cliff, each in
his own cell of the great honeycomb, his private
passage. The right to dig in his own burrow
each of these men has purchased for a trifling
sum, and he toils in it daily. Though it is a
narrow space, in which he is not able to stand
upright, and can scarcely turn — though the air
in it that he breathes is damp and deadly — though
the color in his cheek is commonly the hectic of
consumption, and he has a cough that never
leaves him night or day — though he will himself
remark that he does not know among his neighbors
one old man — and though, all marrying
early, few ever see a father with his grown-up
son, yet, for all this, the scythe-stone cutter
works in his accustomed way, and lives his short
life merrily, that is to say, he drinks down any
sense or care that he might have. These poor
men are almost without exception sickly drunkards.
The women of this community are not
much healthier. It is their task to cut and shape
the rough-hewn stone into those pieces wherewith
"the mower whets his scythe." The thin
particles of dust that escape during this process
are very pernicious to the lungs; but, as usual,
it is found impossible to help the ignorant sufferers
by any thing in the form of an idea from without;
a number of masks and respirators have been more
than once provided for them by the charity of the
neighboring gentry, but scarcely one woman has
given them her countenance.

The short life of the scythe-stone cutter is also
always liable to be abruptly ended. Safety re-
quires that fir-poles from the neighboring wood
should be driven in one by one on either side of
him, and a third flat stake be laid across to make
the walls and roof safe, as the digger pushes his
long burrow forward. Cheap as these fir-poles
are, they are too often dispensed with. There is
scarcely one of the hundred mined entrances of
disused caverns here to be seen, through which
some crushed or suffocated workman has not
been brought out dead. The case is common.
A man can not pay the trifle that is necessary
to buy fir-poles for the support of his cell walls;
the consequence is, that sooner or later, it must
almost inevitably happen that one stroke of the
pickax shall produce a fall of sand behind him,
and set an impassable barrier between him and
the world without. It will then be to little purpose
that another may be working near him,
prompt to give the alarm and get assistance;
tons upon tons of heavy sand divide the victim
from the rescuers, and they must prop and roof
their way at every step, lest they too perish.
Such accidents are therefore mostly fatal; if the
man was not at once crushed by a fall of sand
upon him, he has been cut oft from the outer air,
and suffocated in his narrow worm-hole.

Whiteknights is a small village at the foot of this cliff,
inhabited almost entirely by persons following
this scythe-stone trade. The few agricultural
laborers there to be met with may be distinguished
at a glance from their brethren of the pits; the
bronzed cheeks from the hectic, the muscular
frames from the bodies which disease has weakened, 
and which dissipation helps to a more swift
decay. The cottages are not ill-built, and generally
stand detached in a small garden; their
little porches may be seen of an evening thronged
with dirty pretty children, helping father outside
his cavern by carrying the stone away in little
baskets, as he brings it out to them.

Beside the Luta rivulet, which has pleasanter
nooks, more flowery banks, and falls more musical
than any stream in Devon ; beside this brook,
and parted by a little wood of beeches and wild
laurel from the village, is a very pearl of cottages.
Honeysuckle, red-rose, and sweet-briar hold it
entangled in a fragrant net-work ; they fall over
the little windows, making twilight at midnoon,
yet nobody has ever thought of cutting them
away or tying up a single tendril. Grandfather
Markham and his daughter Alice, with John
Drewit, her husband and master of the house,
used to live there, and they had three little chidlren,
Jane, Henry, and Joe.

A little room over the porch was especially
neat. It was the best room in the cottage, and
therein was lodged old Markham, who had, so
far as the means of his children went, the best
of board as well. He was not a very old man,
but looked ten years older than he was, and his
hand shook through an infirmity more grievous
than age. He was a gin-drinker. John Drewit
had to work very hard to keep not only his own
household in food and clothing, but also his poor
old father-in-law in drink.

John was a hale young man when first I knew
him, but he soon began to alter. As soon as it
was light he was away to the sand-cliff by a
pleasant winding path through the beechwood
and up the steps which his own spade had cut.
One or two of them he had made broader than
the rest, at intervals, where one might willingly
sit down to survey the glory spread beneath; the
low, white, straw-thatched farms gleaming like
light among the pasture-lands, the little towns
each with its shining river, and the great old city
in the hazy distance; the high beacon hills, the
woods, and far as eye could see, the mist that
hung over the immense Atlantic. This resting
on the upward path, at first a pleasure, became
soon a matter of necessity, and that, too, long
before the cough had settled down upon him;
few men in Whiteknights have their lungs so
whole that they can climb up to their pits without
a halt or two.

The old man helped his son-in-law sometimes;
he was a good sort of man by nature, and
not a bit more selfish than a drunkard always
must be. He ground the rough stones into shape 
at home, minded the children in his daughter's
absence, and even used the pick himself when he
was sober. John, too, was for his wife's sake
tolerant of the old man's infirmity, though half
his little earnings went to gratify the old man's
appetite. At last necessity compelled him to be,
as he thought, undutiful. Print after print vanished
from the cottage walls, every little ornament,
not actually necessary furniture, was sold:
absolute want threatened the household, when
John at last stated firmly, though tenderly, that
giandfather must give up the gin-bottle or find
some other dwelling. Alice was overcome with
tears, but when appealed to by the old man,
pointed to her dear husband, and bowed her head
to his wise words.

For two months after this time, there were no
more drunken words nor angry tongues to be
heard within Johns pleasant cottage. Nothing
was said by daughter or by son-in-law of the long
score at the public-house that was being paid off
by instalments; the daughter looked no longer
at her father with reproachful eyes, and the
children never again had to be taken to bed
before their time— hurried away from the sight
of their grandfather*s shame. At last, however,
on one Sunday evening in July, the ruling passion
had again the mastery; Markham came home in
a worse state than ever; and in addition to the
usual debasement, it was evident that he was
possessed also by some maudlin terror, that he
had no power to express.

Leaving him on his bed in a lethargic sleep,
John sallied forth as usual at dawn; his boys,
Harry and Joe, carrying up for him his miner's
spade and basket. Heavy-hearted as he was, he
could not help being gladdened by the wonderful
beauty of the landscape. His daughter told me
that she never saw him stand so long looking at
the country — he seemed unwillingly to leave the
sunlight for his dark, far-winding burrow. His
burrow he had no reason to dread. Poverty never
had pressed so hard upon John Drewit as to induce
him to sell away the fir props that assured
the safety of his life. Often and often had his
voice been loud against those men, who, knowing
of the mortal danger to which they exposed their
neighbors, gave drink or money in exchange for
them to the foolhardy and vicious. Great, therefore,
was his horror when be went into his cave
that morning, and found that his own props had
been removed. They had not been taken from
the entrance, where a passer-by might have 
observed their absence ; all was right for the first
twenty yards, but beyond that distance down to
the end of his long toil-worn labyrinth every pole
was stripped away. Surely he knew at once
that it was not an enemy who had done this; he
knew that the wretched old man who lay stupefied
at home, had stolen and sold his life defense for
drink. All that the poor fellow told his boys
was that they should keep within the safe part
of the digging while he himself worked on into
the rock as usual. Three or four times he brought
out a heap of scythe-stones in his basket, and
then he was seen alive no more.

Harry, his eldest son, was nearest to the
unpropped passage when the sand cliff fell. When
he heard his father call out suddenly, he ran at
once eagerly, running toward the candle by which
the miner worked, but on a sudden all was dark;
there was no light from candle or from sun —
before and behind was utter blackness, and there
was a noise like thunder in his ears. The whole
hill seemed to have fallen upon them both, and
many tons of earth parted the father from his
child. The sand about the boy did not press on
him closely. A heavy piece of cliff that held 
together was supported by the narrow walls of the
passage, and his fate was undetermined. He
attended only to the muffled sounds within the
rook, from which he knew that his father, though
they might be the sounds of his death struggle,
still lived.

To the people outside the alarm had instantly
been given by the other child, and in an incredibly
short space of time the laborers from field and
cave came hurrying up to the rescue. Two only
could dig together, two more propped the way
behind them foot by foot; relays eagerly waited
at the entrance; and not an instant was lost in
replacing the exhausted workmen. Every thing
was done as quickly, and, at the same time, as
judiciously as possible, the surgeon had at the
first been ridden for, at full speed, to the neigh-
boring town; brandy and other stimulants, a rude
lancet — with which many of the men were but
too well practiced operators — bandages and blankets
were all placed ready at hand: for the disaster
was so common at Whiteknights that every
man at once knew what was proper to be done.
Those who were not actively engaged about the
cave, were busy in the construction of a litter  —
perhaps a bier — for the unhappy victims.

How this could have happened? was the whispered
wonder. John was known to be far too
prudent a man to have been working without
props, and yet fresh ones had to be supplied to
the rescuers, for they found none as they
advanced. The poor widow  — every moment made
more sure of her bereavement — stood a little way
aside; having begged for a spade and been refused,
she stood with her two children hanging
to her apron, staring fixedly at the pit's mouth.

Down at the cottage there was an old man
invoking Heaven's vengeance on his own gray
head and reproaching himself fiercely with the
consequences of his brutal vice; he had stolen
the poles from his son's pit on the previous morning,
to provide himself with drink; and on that
very day, even before he was quite recovered from
his yesterday's debauch, he was to see the victim
of his recklessness brought home a lifeless heap.
He saw John so brought in, but with the eyes of
a madman; his brain, weakened by drunkenness,
never recovered from that shock.

Basket and barrow had been brought full out
of the pit a hundred times; and it was almost
noon before, from the bowels of the very mountain
as it seemed, there cam up a low moaning
cry. "My child, my child," murmured the
mother: and the digging became straightaway
even yet more earnest, almost frantic in its speed
and violence. Presently into the arms of Alice
little Harry was delivered, pale and corpse-like,
but alive; and then a shout as of an army was
set up by all the men.

They dug on until after sunset — long after
they had lost all hope of finding John alive. His
body was at last found. It was placed upon the
litter, and taken, under the soft evening sky,
down through the beech wood home. Alice
walked by its side, holding its hand in hers,
speechless, and with dry eyes. She never knew
until after her father's death, how her dear John
was murdered. She used to wonder why the
old man shrank from her when she visited him,
as she often did, in his confinement. The poor
widow is living now, though she has suffered
grief and want. Her daughter Jane has married
a field laborer, and her sons, by whom she is now
well supported, have never set foot in a pit since
they lost their father.






Sources:


Picture is from the Ottery Gazette article Maintaining an Edge - Devon's unique whetstone industry, with the caption: "Peter Orlando Hutchinson visited the mines in September 1854, when he made this watercolour sketch. Picture courtesy of the East Devon AONB and the Devon Heritage Centre". The Ottery Gazette article (written by Al Findlay, and Chris Wakefield, Ottery Heritage Society) is highly recommended.

The story Sharpening the Scythe appears in
Harper's New Monthly Magazine,Vol. IX, No. XLIX, June 1854, p. 73-76 
after originally appearing in the weekly magazine edited by Charles Dickens,
Household Words, 1 April 1854, No. 210, p. 150-152.
(The story was republished later in 
The Churchman's Monthly Magazine, Vol. 1, No. 10, October 1854, p. 598.)

According to the Dickens Journals Online, Sharpening the Scythe was written by the novelist James Payn (1830-1898), and was "a prose variant of Payn's 'The Scythe-Stone Cutter' in Stories from Boccaccio and Other Poems" (1852).

 

Some related information can be found at the University of Southampton's "Stone in Archaeology Database" entries for Honiton Scythe Stones, including the following details:

Main Details
...The best stone was about 80 feet beneath the surface and four beds were favoured by the miners. They were locally known as 'fine vein', 'gutters' (most commonly used for scythe stones) 'bottom stone' and 'soft vein' (Fitton 1836: 236- 238)...The Blackdown Greensand was extensively exploited for siliceous concretions in the vicinity of Blackborough Common. This was an irregularly cemented micaceous sandstone containing glauconite and sponge spicules and rare silicified shells, with traces of ripple marks and horizontal and vertical burrows (Devon County Council n.d.). These concretions were of "just the right lightweight porous composition and abrasive surface" to provide material for whetstones (Stanes 1993). Geologically this stone is described as a quartz-muscovite-tourmaline grit...
These whetstones were often known as 'Devonshire batts'.

Quarries

...Quarrying began in the 18th and 19th centuries on Blackborough Common, working extended along to Ponchydown and perhaps as far south as North Hill. A thriving industry was developed which provided whetstones of a very high quality to a huge market. The stone was soft when first dug and could be shaped, but later it hardened on exposure to air (Edmonds 1975: 70). Unfortunately by 1900 most of the stone was worked out and only three mines remained, and by 1910 the invention of carborundum meant the end of the whetstone industry (Rugg 1999). The mines were driven horizontally into the hill for up to 400 metres and today the remains of the mines can just about be discerned as hollows on the surface (ibid.)

Usage
...This stone was primarily used for the manufacture of whetstones, these were stones used for sharpening the edges of implements, such as scythes and sickles etc. The ones made at Blackborough were more or less rectangular in shape with bevelled corners and tapered at the ends, and approximately 31x4x3cm (Moore: 1978: 62).

References:

Edmonds, E.A, McKeown, M.C. & Williams, M. (1975)
British Regional Geology: South-West England.

Fitton, W. H. (1836)
Observations on some of the Strata between the Chalk and the Oxford Oolite in the South-East of England.
Journal: Transactions of the Geological Society of London, 2nd series. 4. pp. 103 - 388.
   
Moore, D. T. (1978)
The Petrology and Archaeology of English Honestones.
Journal: Journal of Archaeological Science. 5, pp. 61-73.
   
Stanes, R. G. F. (1993)
Devonshire Batts, The Whetstone Mining Industry and Community of Blackborough in the Blackdown Hills
Journal: Report and Transactions of the Devonshire Association. Vol. 125, pp. 71 - 112.

1 scythe, 5 acres, 8 hours?

"Mowing Matches" were competitions where contestants with scythes would try to mow a certain area in the least time, or try to mow the most area in a given time. These contests date back to the 1700s or earlier. (From the mid-1800s onward, mowing matches were also held to compare the performance of various designs of mechanical mowers and reapers.) 

Listed below are the published results of some mowing matches held during the past few centuries.



1795 -- Finchley, England 
2 acres (0.8 ha) of grass cut in six hours and 40 minutes

A mowing match was decided a few days ago at Finchley; the prize being a fat hog of eight and twenty stone, and a wooden powdering-tub lined with lead. Only married men under one and thirty years of age were allowed to be candidates, of which there were eleven The winner cut down, and laid in swathe, in a neat and farmer-like manner, two acres of grass, in six hours and forty minutes.

1822 -- New Boston, NH, USA 
One acre (0.4 ha) of grass cut in one hour and 26 minutes

There was a famous mowing match in New Boston, on Saturday, August 17th, between Mr Daniel Andrews, of New Boston, and Mr Abel Hart, of Goffstown. The competition was who should mow an acre of meadow grass the quickest and best. The ground was staked out and the work performed in the presence of numerous spectators. Mr Andrews completed his acre in one hour and twenty six minutes. Mr Hart in one hour and twenty eight and a half minutes. The victory was of course decided in favor of Mr Andrews.  Amherst (N.H.) Cabinet.

.

1826 -- Stratham, NH, USA 
813 square feet (75.5 square meters) in one minute

    On the morning of the 4th inst. many of the farmers and other inhabitants of Stratham assembled at the Plain's corner to witness the novel exhibition of a mowing match. The premium was an elegant scythe, by which the work was executed. The rule was previously established that no candidates should be accepted, excepting those between the ages of 18 and 21; that after the work was executed it should be measured, and the three best mowers should again perform the task. Three judges were appointed: Major Benj. Clark, Major David Robinson, and Capt Joseph Smith, with liberty to the mowers to select two additional ones. if they should think fit.
     When the work was executed by the nine mowers who had presented themselves as candidates, it appeared that Messrs Benjamin F Clark, Nathan L Morrill, and Benjamin Kelly, had done the best minutes mowing; and the work was again performed by them, when it was declared by the judges that Mr C. had mowed in one minute, 45 strokes, 8 feet swathe, and 101 feet in length, being 808 feet square; Mr M. 50 strokes, 7-3/4 feet swathe, and 103 feet in length, being 796 feet square; and Mr K. 48 strokes, 7-7/12 feet swathe, and 107-1/4 feet in length, being 813 feet and one quarter square; and Mr Kelly accordingly received the premium. The thanks of the company were tendered to the gentlemen who acted as judges; to Capt Smith for the use of his field; and to Rev Mr Cummings, for an elegant and appropriate address delivered by him upon the occasion.
     Previous to the dissolution of the meeting, Major Smith, aged 80 last autumn, mowed one minute and cut over a surface of 803 feet square. The work was executed by him with great ease, and he was rewarded by the applause of all present and with a badge of respect and honour. It is proposed to continue these meetings; and we shall endeavour in our next paper, to give some further account of the plan. We regret that our limits will not allow a more extended notice of this first exhibition of the kind.
[Exeter Gazette]

1827 -- Canandaigua, NY, USA
586 square feet (54.4 square meters) in one minute

     In giving an account of the festivities off the 4th, the mowing match should not be forgotten. As soon as the procession returned from the church, a large concourse of people repaired to the meadow of Mr Thaddeus Chapin, a few rods west of the burying ground, where the following exercises took place: Fourteen candidates entered for the premiums, six in number, to be awarded to the man who should cut the most grass, and in the best manner, in the space of one minute. The first premium, (an elegant scythe with snath) was taken by Calvin Simmons, who cut 586-1/2 square feet; swarthe 9 feet 2 inches wide. The second do. (an axe was) awarded to John Kentm who cut 511 square feet; swarthe 9 feet 9 inches wide. Third do. (a hoe), to John Woby, a colored man, who cut 546 square feet; swarthe 9 feet wide. Fourth do. (a fork) to Daniel Trowbridge, who cut 508-1/2 square feet; swarthe 9 feet wide. Fifth do. (a spade) to Elias Russell, who cut 557 square feet; swarthe 9 feet wide. Sixth do. (a shovel) to K. Murray, who cut 496 square feet; swarthe 8 feet wide.
     All the work was extremely well done, and it was with some difficulty that the judges, Messrs. Bates, Wilson, and Hubbell, could determine which of the men ought in justice, receive the last two premiums.
     The premium articles were all of elegant workmanship and were given by several of our most respectable citizens.
[Canandiagua Repository]

1828 -- Canandaigua, NY, USA
892 square feet (82.9 square meters) in one minute

The Mowing Match at Canandaigua on the 4th excited much interest. The first premium, a Plough, was awarded to Samuel Remington, of that town, who mowed in one minute 100 feet in length, and a total of 892 square feet.

1856 -- Vallejo, CA, USA
5 acres (2.0 ha) of grass cut in 7 hours, 55 minutes

The True Californian gives an account of a mowing match which came off on the 9th instant, in Vallejo Valley, near the town of Vallejo, between Addison M. Ripley, from Maine, and Mr. Ball, from Vermont. The task was five acres of grass each, turning off two and a half tons to the acre! They mowed against time. Mr. Ripley won the match, finishing his work in seven hours and fifty-five minutes, and beating his adversary a quarter of an acre!! The stake was five hundred dollars. Mowing machines would not stand much chance with such men.

COMMENTARY

The results of mowing matches should give some indication of what extremes are possible when a scythe is in very skilled hands attached to a strong body that is pushed to its limits. Such a pace is obviously not sustainable for actual farm work.

Of course, the results of non-standardized contests cannot be compared too closely, since there are numerous factors that can cause variations in the outcomes. These factors include differences in grass type, height, density and moisture content; contest format; requirements and penalties related to quality of cut; and inaccuracies in area measurements. "Sloppy reporting" could also distort the results of a match.

(Interesting to see so much variation in the reported results from 1827 and 1828, with the matches held only one year apart at the same town.)

Nevertheless, these published results show some remarkable achievements in the realm of hand mowing, during times when scythes were common tools on a farm. In the early 1800s, more than 800 sq ft (75 sq m) could be cut in one minute, and an acre (0.4 ha) could be cut in an hour and a half (assuming that the reports are factual).

The report from the 1826 match gives some notable details. The mowers in this match cut only one swath, at whatever width was optimal for them. The swath widths were around 8 feet for the top contestants. The winner mowed a distance of 107 ft (33 m) in one minute using 48 strokes, which means that his average forward advance was over 26 inches (68 cm) per stroke! The corresponding advances for the other top contestants were similarly over two feet (60 cm) per stroke.

To obtain such a large advance with each stroke would require a long blade (swung a certain way) and a sturdy snath (to withstand the forces from moving that amount of grass with each quick stroke). The American scythes of that era could qualify, with their stout snaths, and blades commonly available around 4 ft (1.2 m) in length.

[New York] Farmer whetting his scythe, by William Sidney Mount, 1848

Competition scythe (Südtiroler Bauernjugend photo, 2010)

The 1856 (Vallejo) match results are outstanding, perhaps unbelievable. The newspaper reports that the winner's name was Ripley --  so believe it or not.

In closing, the following newspaper article from 1900 gives an account of a mowing match that was surely a "tall tale" from a storyteller:

TOLD BY THE OLD CIRCUS MAN.

The Greatest of All Giants Enters In the Farmers' Mowing Matches.

"If anything," said the old circus man, "the great giant used to come out strongest In competitive contests. You see, there he showed for not only what he was, but even greater, by the contrast. Of course, he was always in contrast, but here the contrast was made more striking; but we never failed to enter him in any sort of a competitive contest that we could get him into. Mowing contests, for instance, the giant was very strong in; and we never missed an opportunity to put him into one of these when we could. The old man was always on the outlook, sharp, for this sort of thing, in any form, and if he ran up against a mowing match coming off, say the day the circus struck the town, he'd get the old man into it somehow, sure; not, of course, entering him as a giant or a big man, or anything of that sort, but simply as an unknown. He used to go equipped for this mowing business.

"I suppose that the average scythe blade would be three feet or thereabouts In length, and the snath maybe four feet and a half long. Well, now, the giant's scythe had a blade about ten feet long and a handle about fifteen. Those farmers would get together in a grass lot to see what a man could do, say, in half an hour, everything to count; width of swath, forward cut, cleanness and evenness of the mowing, and so on. I suppose that a man might cut a swath five feet wide, possibly more, but more likely less, and his cut as he stepped forward with even swings of the sharp scythe might be a foot to eighteen inches. The young farmer, and some old ones, too, for that matter, would try, one after another, in this competition, every man swinging along in fine style, till pretty much all of them had had their chance at it and then they'd begin calling for the unknown, and then we'd bring up the giant.

"And he never failed to make a sensation when he appeared; but when he stepped into the field and took off his coat and tossed it into the wagon alongside the lot, and took his scythe out of the wagon, with its ten-foot blade and fifteen-foot snath, and rolled up his sleeves and took the scythe and set to mowing, then there was a sensation. Talk about cutting a wide swath! Why, you ought to see the giant! The farmers cut maybe five feet, the giant fifteen. They'd step forward a. foot or a foot and a half with every sweep, the giant four or five feet. And he was a good mower, too; cutting close and even and clean from side to side. Just think of it, will you!—a man cutting a path fifteen feet wide and going forward five feet at every stroke!

"Pretty soon the giant would stop and pull a scythe-stone out of his bootleg—this stone was three feet long, as long as an ordinary scythe blade —and sharpen his scythe with it; and then he'd drop the stone in his bootleg and go to mowing again. And pretty soon he'd get dry and want some cider; and that's where he used to come in again with business. We had a jug that was as big around as a barrel in the biggest part of it, and that was pretty near as tall, but a regular jug in shape, and we used to get this over the fence to him wherever he was, and he'd lift that up as easy as coud be and turn it up, looking like a balloon up there turned up in that way, and take a big, long drink and then set it down and go to mowing again.

"Well, when the giant had got through mowing there wasn't likely to be much grass left In that lot to mow, and there never was any doubt about who'd won the prize. And he used to cut as wide a swath among the farmers as he did in he grass. There wasn't a farmer for miles around but used to come to the [circus] show and bring his family. Maybe they'd ha' come anyway, but the giant's mowing hit 'em hard; and as for the rest of the community, why, It just simply got 'em all.

"My, my; but It makes me sigh to think of the great old giant."

—N. Y. Sun.

[appearing in the Los Angeles Herald, 1900}

Sources:

Mowing Ahead sign, U.S. Federal Highway Administration, Manual on Uniform Traffic Control Devices, sign number W21-8, public domain

Finchley match results from The Sporting Magazine, Vol. 6, Rogerson and Tuxford, London, September 1795, page 327

New Boston match results from New England Farmer, Vol. 1, No. 5, Boston, August 31, 1822, page 35

Stratham match results from The American Farmer, Vol. 8, No. 17, Baltimore, July 21, 1826, page 139. Also reported in New England Farmer, Vol. IV, No. 52, Boston, July 21, 1826, page 411

Canandaigua 1827 match results from Niles' Weekly Register, Vol. 32, No. 829, Baltimore, August 4, 1827, page 373

Canandaigua 1828 match results from New England Farmer, Vol. VII, No. 1, Boston, July 25, 1828, page 6

Vallejo match results from The Genesee Farmer, Vol. 17, No. 9, Rochester (NY), September 1856, page 267.  Also reported in Rockland County Journal, Nyack (NY), October 25, 1856, page 2


Farmer whetting his scythe painting from William Sidney Mount book by Frankenstein, Alfred. NY: Abrams, 1975, plate 31 [color] http://www.the-athenaeum.org/art/detail.php?ID=21906 Hay in Art Database ID: 133


Competition scythe photo from Südtiroler Bauernjugend, April 15, 2010


Circus giant story from Los Angeles Herald, No. 141, February 18, 1900, page 17.
Also appears in Rockland County Times, Nanuet (NY), March 10, 1900, page 6

Scythe Fiction (Scy-Fi)

Here's a story that was published 102 years ago:

WHEN JOHN WAS MEDIUM
BY SHELDON C. STODDARD



"In choosing a scythe, John, same as in lots of other things, it's a pretty good plan to be medium".

Sylvester Bristow cast a shrewdly critical glance at the well-made but unusually long scythe that his son had picked from the rackful in the village hardware store. "There are places, John, I'll admit, where the stroke you'd get with that thing would work mighty fine, and then again there are places where it wouldn't. It's a long hard pull across Amasa Barton's Big Twenty -- and it's a long day, John, from sun to sun in July."

"But you know what I'll have to meet, father. I shall need the best there is."

The older man laid a big, wrinkled hand on the square shoulder of his stalwart son. "Even if he is past fifty, Amasa Barton claims to be as good with a scythe as the best in this end of county. And perhaps he is. He's in a hurry to get through haying, too. He'll rush things. He doesn't like his neighbors to be ahead. That's why he's offering pay and a half for hands provided they'll stay with him in the field. But, John," -- his shrewd eyes had been scanning the rack, and his big hand now held a scythe much like the one that his son picked out, but several inches shorter, -- "There you are, now, for a pull on a long, hot day and an all-round pull in all kinds of grass -- medium, John. Your father's been there."

 A smile lighted up the young fellow's lean brown face. Replacing the long scythe in the rack, he carefully balanced in his hands the one his father had selected.

"I guess it'll be this one, father. Amasa Barton may be the best in these parts just now, but if you hadn't the rheumatism, I should be prompt to dispute it. I don't know whether I can 'stay with him' as he calls it, or not, but I'm going to try. If you say this scythe," -- his gaze returned for an instant half-regretfully to the long, rakish one, but he finished decisively, -- "why, this one it is. I hear Ben Langton came on a day or two ago to help Barton."

"Yes, Langton is there. I've heard a number say the young fellow is a clipper with a scythe -- fully up to Amasa. He's a great talker, but unlike most big talkers he can perform. He's stocky and wiry, but I guess you needn't worry."

_____

John Bristow hung his new scythe, ground to a razor edge, in a convenient crotch of the old greening tree in his father's yard, and glancing speculatively at the cloudless evening sky, sauntered slowly to the house. From the porch his sister Kate called to him, "So it's Waterloo for sonny boy tomorrow, is it -- eh, John?"

"Must be, if you say so, Kate."

"And Benny Langton, too, John -- of all others. Whose black eyes will dance if you take second place, little boy?"

"Possibly, now, she means Sue Barton's," said John, tranquilly. He sat down beside her, and after a while he said, "I wish I had more of the 'gift of tongues,' Kate -- could talk, you know, like Langton and such fellows. It's a great gift. Sue likes that chap -- and I don t blame her. He can talk on all occasions -- right word for the right place, and all that, you know. But my tongue, now, when I want it the most, is about as valuable as a piece of beefsteak.

"Yes, I like Sue," he continued. "I may as well own up to you, because I know you know it already. But there it is. She's bright and quick herself, and a bold, bright, quick-witted talkative chap like Langton would naturally take her fancy. Just compare him yourself with a thick tongue like me."

"Startling contrast, that's a fact," commented his sister. "Ben Langton can talk, we all know, in all places and under all conditions. But did it never occur to you, John, that a girl might like to apply some of father's ideas to persons and things?"

"Such as?"

"Medium, John. Think it over now and then."

_____

"This is the field, boys -- the last one, and I'm glad of it. It's the Big Twenty, you know." Amasa Barton cast a proud glance over the broad meadow, its tall grasses swaying lazily in the early morning air. "Grass hasn't hurt any to speak of yet, and won't if we get it before another rain. Is it pay and a half, boys? All right, that suits me exactly. We'll make a mark in the Big Twenty before sundown I guess."

Big and brawny, a trifle stout, perhaps, but hard as nails, the farmer, with his huge arms bare to the elbow, looked the picture of rugged health as he unslung his scythe and stepped promptly to the front.

Langton came next. Both men glanced sharply at John's scythe, and Langton, catching the farmer's eye, grinned slightly, and received a wink by way of response.

John had already noticed that each of his opponents carried a long scythe, formidable in appearance, and almost the exact counterpart of the one that he had so nearly selected shortly before. He cast a critical glance over the big meadow. Although fairly tall, the grass did not seem particularly thick on the ground. He wished most fervently that he had stuck to his own choice of scythes. The outlook seemed decidedly dubious. But swish! -- Barton had struck out. The day's work had begun.

Long before the first long, straight swaths had been laid across Amasa Barton's "Big Twenty," John Bristow fully understood what confronted him. The grass in the Big Twenty proved to be, as he had thought, not especially heavy on the ground. With long, easily carried strokes, the two leaders swept up the long meadow; they swung their scythes in perfect unison and with but little apparent effort, and each, as John well knew, watched out of the corner of his eye to see how the new hand was doing.

By using all his art and covering every possible inch of his shorter blade, John was able to keep stroke, through the first long swath, without loss of place. But well he knew that when the others warmed to their work, the pace would be far swifter -- and for several reasons. Barton was shrewd, and as his neighbors said, a trifle "close." He was not the man to offer "pay and a half" without expecting the better end of the bargain, He knew well his own endurance, his skill and prowess in the field, and he loved to excel. John knew how his boisterous laugh would ring out if a younger man should fall behind. And John particularly wished to stand well in the opinion of the stalwart owner of the Big Twenty.

Langton and John had never been very good friends at best, and just now John knew that nothing would give Langton greater pleasure than to see him discredited with his employer. For an hour or two they mowed steadily. Once or twice, Langton had said something trivial in itself, but containing, as John well knew, a thinly veiled innuendo. He understood that the others felt they had taken his measure. He also understood that sooner or later, one or both of them would attempt that crowning proof of superiority in the hay field -- mowing him "out of his swath."

Along toward noon, when it was John's lead, the two strong mowers behind crowded up nearer than at any time before. Well warmed to their work, they were lengthening the stroke of those long scythes without diminishing the time. Langton, next to the leader, was almost abreast. He was beginning to roll his swath just enough to make it difficult for John to "toe in" properly for the beginning of his stroke.

John knew there was but one thing to do -- he must quicken his stroke. It called upon his reserve of strength and endurance, a reserve that he was carefully hoarding, and that he ought not to call upon until far later in the day, if at all. He was quite conscious of all this, but he was not going out until forced out. With a quick bracing of muscles, he "broke stroke" and forged ahead slowly to his proper lead.

Langton slightly increased his peculiar whistling. Barton glanced up quickly with a look of surprise. Each quickened stroke a trifle, but not much. They knew it was not necessary.

As they "carried swaths" for the next trip, Barton told with gusto the story of one of his former triumphs at a mowing contest. Langton commented freely, and laughed heartily at the right places. But the new hand had nothing to say. His quickened breathing and flushed, perspiring face showed the beginnings of distress and the fact that if he had comments to make, he had little breath with which to make them. At the foot of the field he whetted his scythe with the others; but Langton ostentatiously dressed his scythe with a rattling accompaniment of the stone on the blade -- plainly the mower's challenge. It was his lead, and he stepped promptly to the front with a slight nod -- which was returned -- at Amasa Barton.

John Bristow got through that long swath somehow, he hardly knew how; but he found at the end, almost to his surprise, that he was still in his place. And no sound that he had ever heard seemed sweeter to him than the loud clang of the farmhouse bell, which then boomed out the noon dinner call.

Except for John, it was a jolly group that gathered about the table in the long, cool dining room. Barton himself seemed in an especially genial mood, and Langton quite outdid himself as a talker. Sue Barton, keen-witted as ever, met his raillery with quick repartee. John thought that he had never seen her more charming. And he had had more cause, he thought to himself, to regret his own obstinate, thick-tongued silence.

Amasa Barton dwelt much on the fine progress that they were making in the Big Twenty; and Langton took occasion to say that would make a still better showing before night if they all held out.

With a glance at Sue, he added that he thought they would all hold out, with exception, perhaps, of her father and himself -- a thrust at which Barton and he laughed boisterously. John saw that the girl understood. She laughed, but somehow her laughter did not seem quite genuine.

The first swath or two after the short noon hour were as hard for John Bristow as those of the morning -- a little harder, perhaps, because the pace at the start was swifter. And now again it was his turn to lead. Although he more than half-believed that this swath would be his "Waterloo," he stepped to the front with dogged resolution.

That morning he had noticed out in the big meadow a vague line that seemed to mark a different quality or kind of grass, but he had had time to give it only an occasional glance. Now the mowing had brought them fairly to this line, and he understood what it was -- a wide piece of "new-seeded."

Amasa Barton was a good farmer. The ground had been cleared of stones and well tilled: there had been an excellent "catch." The new growth stood rank and thick, and although not lodged, was still a tremendous burden. Eying the thick growth askance, John struck into it tentatively; to his intense relief, his scythe came through clean and free. Again he reached forward, this time with nearly a full stroke, and again his scythe came through without a "buff."

Close behind, and still with that irritating whistle, came Langton, swinging vigorously. With a full, unhesitating stroke he swung into the thick new-seeded.

John listened attentively and watched from the tail of his eye. Langton's whistling ceased abruptly. and in its place came an explosive ejaculation of disgust. He had found three forceful thrusts necessary to drive that long scythe of his through the thick, tangled growth.

A moment later Barton's scythe struck the line of new-seeded. Although no word came from the sturdy farmer, John's quick ears caught a distinct and most expressive grunt. The young haymaker laughed softly to himself. He said nothing, but carefully using a medium stroke that almost invariably brought his scythe through clear and free, he mowed steadily across the wide field. Then he turned back.

Several rods away, and fairly close together, the two were pulling along. By lifting their left hands to a high, strained position, they had contrived somewhat to shorten stroke. They were coming -- after a fashion.

As he waited for them, John looked carefully round. He smiled contentedly as he noticed that nearly all the rest of the big field was covered by new-seeded grass.

Breathing hard and perspiring freely, the two men finished their swaths. As Barton turned at the end, he cast a sharp glance at John's swath. He said nothing, for there was nothing to say; the swath was plainly the cleanest cut of the three. This time there was no story-telling as they carried swaths.

Twice more they cut through the heavy tangled growth, the new hand easily, the champions of the morning only through grim determination. Again at the foot of the field, they wiped their scythes with the fresh-cut grass, preparatory to whetting them.

Whetstone in hand, John Bristow looked for a moment square into the flushed faces of his two opponents. Then, once more over the Big Twenty there rang out, in no uncertain tones, the peculiar sharp rattling notes of the haymaker's challenge. But this time the new hand played the tune!

Although John was not in the least vindictive, he did believe that in certain times and places people should be given a good strong dose of their own medicine. He thought that one of the times was this July day, and one of the places was Amasa Barton's big meadow.

Whenever either of the men, visibly fretting over his long and now unwieldy scythe, took the lead, he followed closely. He was sure at last that he could easily mow either out of swath; more than once he was on the point of doing it. But he refrained; the extreme course is seldom the best. He smiled as he remembered his father's words with their wide application. But steadily, sharply he crowded the work; for perhaps two hours not a word was spoken by any one of the three.

Finally, it was easily to be seen that both Langton and Barton, seasoned workmen though they were, had nearly reached the limit of their endurance -- and especially Langton. That hitherto complacent young man gazed time after time anxiously across the meadow in search of a possible end to that killing new-seeded. But apparently there was no end. It stretched far back, wide and menacing. To add to his discomfiture, it really seemed as if the victim of the morning were carrying his stroke stronger and growing fresher hour by hour. Finally, at the end of a swath in which he had kept place only by using every last shred of his reserve strength, he stopped. Without looking up, he ran his finger over the edge of his scythe, shook his head, and saying gruffly that he "must go and grind," left the field.

For a moment Amasa Barton eyed his slowly retreating "help." He was himself breathing heavily, and perspiration streamed down his face; but his mouth was set, and there was evidently still some fight left in his sturdy frame. He looked at John silently.

"Fine piece of new-seeded grass this, Mr. Barton," remarked John, cheerfully.

Although the sun beat down relentlessly and there was not a breath of air, the sturdy old veteran of the field held his place twice again across the wide meadow. Then at the end a swath he deliberately shouldered his scythe.

"John," he said, slowly, and in his voice was a note of respect that the young man had never heard before, "my scythe isn't dull, and I'm not going to pretend that it is, but -- I'm going to sit in the shade a while. It's pretty hot."

He started toward the house, but stopped to call back, "You understand, John, that you don't have to mow any more today unless want to?"

"Yes," said John, "I understand. But I guess I'll mow till night, thank you."

Twice on his way to the house, Amasa Barton turned to look back at the solitary mower steadily swinging along in the Big Twenty meadow. He understood perfectly well that more than once that stifling afternoon, the young man's courtesy alone had saved him from the disgrace of losing his swath.

From the wide farmhouse porch his wife and daughter glanced up inquiringly as he went slowly past. He scowled at Sue; then suddenly his face relaxed. Stopping, he jerked his big thumb in the direction of the meadow. "That young fellow allows he'll mow till night," he said in an odd tone expressive of mixed emotions. "He's gritty enough -- but it's frightful hot down there. I guess he'd appreciate a jug of our Cold Spring water, if you have time, Sue." And he stumbled into the house.

_____

"Thirsty, John?" John Bristow looked quickly at the end of his long swath. A look of delight came into his face at sight of the bright-eyed girl in the wide sun-hat. Her eyes were twinkling roguishly, and he wondered whether she understood the situation. In the true back-handed style he tossed up the jug and took a deep, refreshing draft.

"Thank you, Sue; this certainly is kind of you," he said, as he handed back the jug. And then, much to his surprise, he suddenly found himself talking with fluent ease.

Soon he again took up his scythe. The girl, with a half smile on her lips, had been looking out over the long row of swaths. Now she looked at the tall young mower, holding his scythe so easily, and said:

"Benny Langton came up to the house a while ago, John. He said he'd dulled his scythe, but he went home without grinding it. And father's lying on the couch in the sitting room." She laughed softly. "I heard them talking at noon. They said you weren't in their class -- that you couldn't stay, and that they were going to put you under the fence before night. They didn't do it, did they?" She hesitated a moment, and then added shyly, "I'm glad, John." And John was alone with his mowing.

The shadows were falling when, with his scythe over his shoulder, John turned into the home lane. Milking was over; his father was putting up the pasture bars. They understood each other, these two, and they said little as they went together up the green lane.

But soon the father said, and there was a pleased light in his eyes, "I saw someone mowing alone this afternoon in Amasa's Big Twenty. It couldn t have been you, John?"

"I guess it was, father."

"Scythe work pretty well, John?"

"Best in the world, father. The very best in the world."

His father nodded appreciatively; then he added, "Taking things by and large in this old world, it's a pretty good plan, John, to be medium."

Source:

The Youth's Companion, Vol. 86, No. 18, May 2, 1912, pages 230-231
Illustration drawn by Charles Hubbard

133 Haymakers

Diagonal line of 23 mowers

Detail of painting "Country around Dixton Manor", 1715

courtesy of The Wilson Cheltenham Art Gallery & Museum

The incomparable Hay in Art website by Alan Ritch has a detailed description of the early eighteenth century painting titled "Country around Dixton Manor". Some quotes:

Careful examination revealed a peaceful army of at least 133 people (71 male, 62 female) waging a cheerful collective campaign to bring in the hay...

Meticulous attention to detail... a visual encyclopedia of haymaking...

Wagon teams of four horses and two drivers...

Work groups of five women rakers with one male forker... no fewer than 46 women with rakes, some resting, most working...

John Harris, in the Observer Magazine (4 November, 1979, p.60) called this painting "one of the most evocative pictures in the whole of English art. There is nothing like it either in its day or at any other time.."

Alan Ritch closely studied the original painting at Cheltenham and his descriptions can be found here, along with details reproduced from the painting.

The following images are linked directly from The Wilson Cheltenham Art Gallery & Museum:

An article titled "The Dixton Paintings" was written by Jane Sale and published in Gloucestershire History (1992). A copy of the 8-page article can be downloaded here.

In an essay titled "Art and agrarian change", Hugh Prince writes that Dixton Manor Haymaking is

...a highly unusual estate painting... The artist does not depict the country house as the center of its world... The haymaking scene is unique in the genre of prospect painting in focusing on a working field... If the artist has accurately enumerated the scene, more than half the able-bodied people of the village are out in the field [based on a historical reference to the village population in 1712]... Operational efficiency is achieved through the division of labour and the whole effort is co-ordinated under the eye of the squire... 

Quoted from The Iconography of Landscape, edited by Cosgroves and Daniels, 1988, preview available here.

More recently, an episode of the BBC television series Talking Landscapes used this painting to "help uncover an Ango-Saxon agricultural revolution." The landscape should look familiar:

Photo from BBC Four series Talking Landscapes, Episode 6 of 6, "...in which Aubrey Manning sets out to discover the history of Britain's ever-changing landscape. Clues from the local art gallery, a spot of ploughing and a flight with a local pilot help uncover an Anglo-Saxon agricultural revolution." [Broadcast in 2012]

This episode seems to be currently unavailable for viewing, but the transcript can be read here in the format of the subtitles for the programme. Some excerpts from the first 10 minutes of the 30-minute episode:

For 250 years, agricultural revolutions have cut through these fields. What could possibly remain of their history? On my first morning, I called on archaeologist Julian Parsons. He told me to meet him at the Cheltenham Art Gallery, where there is a landscape painting completed just before the great agricultural revolution. It's known as the Dixton Harvesters. It's a remarkable picture....

So the landscape, like the communities, was transformed by the agricultural revolution? You would think so, but if you see this view today, it has many similarities with this painting. That afternoon, I persuaded Julian to take me there... Julian insisted we find the exact spot where the painter stood nearly 300 years before...

That's the old hedge. So just where those sheep are, they cut the hay. The grain of the land, the line of the hedges, is exactly the same. Even the new hedges fit into the older pattern. That's quite extraordinary.

All that revolution, the depopulation, but the land has held its pattern. New hedges had appeared in between, but the outlines of this landscape, its fields and tracks, had hardly changed since the painter stood here in 1715.

But if this landscape wasn't created around modern agricultural machinery, what was it created for? Down in the fields themselves was a clue - a pattern of long, curving humps and hollows. Julian said it was ridge and furrow. Before recent powerful ploughs, there had been much more. This, he said, is the secret of this landscape.

That evening, we went to Gloucester to see a collection of aerial photos taken 50 years ago, before the heavy modern ploughing had begun... If you look behind the boundaries, you'll see these very faint lines, which is the ridge and furrow of the medieval field system... In this area, this was the way the land was farmed from the early medieval period... The amazing thing is how extensive this is. It's everywhere. Everywhere is ridge and furrow... a medieval farming system dating back long before the agricultural revolution.

What is this ridge and furrow and how was it made? ...The aim was to bunch up the soil in the middle and have drainage down the side... Rather different from the modern concept, which is a big flat field... You get the advantage of the drainage as well. That's how you get the waves in the landscape. Each wave is someone's piece of ground... It looks as though the ridge and furrow began because medieval fields were divided into strips, each farmed by an individual farmer. And as each one worked with his medieval plough, it piled the soil up into a ridge...

Sources:

Oil painting on canvas, entitled 'Country around Dixton Manor', by an unknown artist of the British (English) School, 1715, The Wilson Cheltenham Art Gallery & Museum, Cheltenham, UK

Dixton Manor haymaking: a visual encyclopedia, Hay In Art: A collection of great works of hay. Alan Ritch, July 24, 2004 

"The Dixton Paintings" article by Jane Sale, Gloucestershire History #6 (1992)

Essay titled "Art and agrarian change" by Hugh Prince, appearing in The Iconography of Landscape: Essays on the Symbolic Representation, Design and Use of Past Environments, edited by Denis Cosgrove and Stephen Daniels, Cambridge University Press, 1988

BBC Four television series Talking Landscapes, Episode 6 of 6, The Vale of Evesham, with Aubrey Manning, Julian Parsons, John Hoyell, Charles Martell... broadcast 14 Aug 2012. Subtitles appear at http://tvguide.lastown.com/bbc/preview/talking-landscapes/6-the-vale-of-evesham.html