noons
What a blowing of mellow horns from the cows ! And the quick nostril trumpet-call of the horse , how eager , how dependent , yet how commanding ! As I mount to the top of the pile , if I ever feel myself a royal personage it is then ; I ascend my throne ; I am king of the corn ; and there is not a brute peasant in my domain that does not worship me as ruler of heaven and earth . Or I love to catch up the bundles of oats as they are thrown down from the loft and send them whirling through the cutting-box so fast that they pour into the big baskets like streams of melted gold ; or , grasping my pitchfork , I stuff the ricks over the mangers with the rich aromatic hay until I am as warm as when I loaded the wagons with it at midsummer noons . With what sweet sounds and odors now the whole barn is filled ! How robust , clean , well-meaning are my thoughts ! In what comfort of mind I can turn to my own roof and store !