One day in early August, when Jane and Grahame went to the field, they found the deep green was fading to a lighter shade, and the next morning, under a warm burst of sunshine, the flax had turned to an ocean of waving blue. Acre after acre, away into the West until their vision was lost amid the dancing heat waves, were countless millions of tiny blue blossoms nodding in the sun. Fleecy clouds threw light shadow-areas which moved slowly across the field, and currents of air, passing here and there, sent shimmering paths of alternating blue and green before their eyes. Again Grahame’s arm tightened about his wife, and this time he chuckled as he announced: “Round Number Two, and we’ve won again.” “How long before it will be out of danger, John?” “Depends on the weather. Say a month--six weeks, perhaps.” “That’s a long time,” said Jane wistfully. “Here, don’t you lose your grip, little wife. Where’d we land if you gave up, I’d like to know?” Jane laughed. “Oh, I’m not losing my grip. I’m only getting a fresh start; but John, as the danger gets nearer and nearer, it takes a lot of nerve never to be afraid, doesn’t it?” “You bet it does, honey; but me--I’m learning a lot these days. A man doesn’t have to flunk entirely because he is knocked out once. Let’s forget it and go fishing.” And there was no need for worry. September came without frost following a season of ample moisture. The blue petals had withered long ago, and in their place had come tiny green bolls. That was the danger period, and night after night John had watched the thermometer, for the slightest trace of frost would destroy the delicate bolls and plunge their hopes once more into discouragement; but no frost came, and he watched the little grains pass from milk to dough and at last harden to the point where they were safe. Then came a time of windy weather and clear skies when the field slowly turned to gold and then brown, and the day arrived when Jane and Grahame stood and listened to the dry, metallic, rasping sound of ripe grain. He took off his hat and threw it out on the grain. The serried ranks of stems hardly bent, and the hat rode buoyantly above the field. That was a sign of twenty bushels to the acre! They returned to the house, too happy even to talk, and Grahame went to work on the big “header” or “push-binder,” as it is sometimes called by virtue of the fact that the horses are behind instead of in front of the cutting and binding mechanism. * * * * * There are two ways of cutting flax. One is to take off the binder attachment and allow the grain to pass to the carrier and be dumped in windrows. The other is to cut it like other grain and shock it. Grahame had decided to go to the additional expense of tying it, as he explained to Jane: