Is there anything better than the smell of new-mown hay? Forget all the other great things about summer — swimming, baseball, barbecues — it’s that sweet fragrance of hay that tops them all. And cutting the hay is just the beginning of the delightful scents it can provide. For those of you who never had a chance to rub elbows with a cow, let me assure you that when poets talk about the “sweet breath of resting cows,” it’s not poetic license; it’s the truth. Whether it’s from their initial munching on the hay or from the winding journey through their various stomachs and the cud they bring up for further attention, it’s a very pleasant smell indeed. A herd of cows lying in a field, dreamily chewing away, is the picture of calm, an image from the past to be brought up, cud-like, to still the anxious soul in time of trouble.
The old adage tells us to “make hay while the sun shines,” but more is needed than just a sunny day to make that hay. Before the age of mowing machines and balers, the farmer needed three essential tools: a scythe, a rake and a pitchfork.
I always wanted to try out a scythe and finally had my chance in my 50s. For several summers, I would get up early when the dew was still on the grass and cut hay. What a peaceful, pleasant experience it is! It feels great to be outdoors, doing some hard work, making a useful product without fossil fuel. This grass, fed not just to cows but to horses and oxen, was the renewable solar energy of our ancestors, the energy that provided the horsepower for all the heavy hauling necessary for survival through the long winters. The hayfield was the power plant that fueled the homestead, and to tap into that power you needed a scythe.
Scythes come in two shapes: the European shaft is straight, while the American is curved. Most people call this shaft the “snath”; however, variants of that word have existed for centuries, both here and in Great Britain: “sneth, sned, snead” (the last two are pronounced the same — rhyming with “head”). I began with an American scythe from my great-grandfather when I started making hay here in Wilton. It’s heavier than you might think, so you have to be careful not to bring on ergonomic distress in any number of joints. One year, my neighbor Lincoln Geiger loaned me a straight-snath Austrian scythe, and I was sold! It was so light — the labor was 10 times easier. There’s a company in Perry, Maine, that sells them, for anyone interested in getting rid of your gas-powered lawn mower.
A few years ago, my brother-in-law came to visit and asked if he could try out my “sigh,” tossing the final “th” into oblivion as if it never existed. I at first put it down to one of the idiosyncratic quirks brothers-in-law are noted for, but further research showed that “sigh” can be found throughout the country, though not so much in New England. “Th” is a weak sound, and before “s” it’s difficult to say, so “clothes” usually comes out “cloze” for most of us, and “scythes” could come out “sighs”: plural “sighs” means singular “sigh.” There you have it.
The original spelling from Anglo-Saxon times was “sithe,” with the “sc” showing up in the 15th century because the know-it-alls of the day — the newly educated men who were proud that they knew the classical languages — thought it was derived from Latin “scidere,” to cut. But it’s not. We also have these learned gentlemen to thank for making our lives miserable by putting the B in “debt.”
One of my friends from Mason told me that in the old days, when farmers would gather in a meadow to mow, they would stagger themselves to keep from injuring each other with the sweeping strokes of their scythes. They always made sure to put the laziest guy first, so the others coming up behind him would be nipping at his heels if he slowed down.
Oh my goodness, all these scythe stories, and I haven’t even gotten to the rake and the pitchfork! Next time.
Dale Coye is a member of the American Dialect Society. He has taught English and the humanities at several universities and worked in area theaters as a dialect coach and director. He grew up on a dairy farm in central New York and now lives in Wilton.