The love of all things was upon me, and a softness to them all, and a sense of having something even such as they had.
Then the golden harvest came, waving on the broad hill-side, and nestling in the quiet nooks scooped from out the fringe of wood.

A wealth of harvest such as never gladdened all our country-side since my father ceased to reap, and his sickle hung to rust.

There had not been a man on Exmoor fit to work that reaping-hook since the time its owner fell, in the prime of life and strength, before a sterner reaper.

But now I took it from the wall, where mother proudly stored it, while she watched me, hardly knowing whether she should smile or cry.
All the parish was assembled in our upper courtyard; for we were to open the harvest that year, as had been settled with Farmer Nicholas, and with Jasper Kebby, who held the third or little farm.

We started in proper order, therefore, as our practice is: first, the parson Josiah Bowden, wearing his gown and cassock, with the parish Bible in his hand, and a sickle strapped behind him.