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THE END OF AUGUST ALWAYS TURNED the small valley town of Dorsetville into a hive of activity.

Children, who in June had thought the summer would never end, were now flush with a sense of urgency to put in as many hours as they could down at the swimming hole by the river, or to explore new paths along the mountain range that ringed the town. Suddenly there seemed so much that had been left undone that they swarmed like bees collecting the last pollen to get it all in before summer had passed.

Men, who had spent the month enjoying the countryside filled with lush shafts of wheat and corn from the vantage of their front porch rockers, now felt the pull to get busy. As harvesttime neared, few dared to linger over second cups of coffee at the Country Kettle. They were much too busy for idle chitchat. There was machinery to grease and oil, barns and silos to be cleared, firewood to be split and stacked, and acres of corn and wheat to be gathered in before the frost.

Men worked tirelessly from sunup to sundown against the steady drone of combines that spit and sputtered up and down the fields, leaving the entire countryside to resemble a patchwork quilt. And when they were through, hundreds of circular bales of hay would dot the fields like modern sculptures left to dress the landscapes in a prelude to fall.

Women were no less frenzied as the summer came to a close. Vines bent to the ground under the weight of fist–size tomatoes. Peaches were coming so fast and furious that even the birds had had their fill. Suddenly it seemed as though every manner of fruit and vegetable was ready to be canned at once.

Women scurried about like squirrels, gathering in bushels of produce....