soil from being washed down by the torrents of February and March.  The owner is a wealthy man, and has an extensive establishment; the farm buildings—­once whitewashed, but now for the most part somewhat dirty—­wander away over a large area.  There are wide courts, deep in manure, surrounded by barns; there are sties, haymows, carefully closed granaries, an olive press, a grain mill, all kinds of stables and folds, likewise a huge irregularly shaped house wherein are lodged the numerous slaves and the hired help.  The general design of this house is the same as of a city house—­the rooms opening upon an inner court, but naturally its dimensions are ampler, with the ampler land space.

Just now the courtyard is a noisy and animated sight.  The master has this moment ridden in, upon one of his periodic visits from Athens; the farm overseer has run out to meet him and report, and half a dozen long, lean hunting dogs—­Darter, Roarer, Tracker, Active, and more[*]—­are dancing and yelping, in the hope that their owner will order a hare hunt.  The overseer is pouring forth his usual burden of woe about the inefficient help and the lack of rain, and Hybrias is complaining of the small spring crop—­“Zeus send us something better this summer!” While these worthies are adjusting their troubles we may look around the farm.

[*]For an exhaustive list of names for Greek dogs, see Xenophon’s curious “Essay on Hunting,” ch.  VII, section 5.

175.  Plowing, Reaping, and Threshing.—­Thrice a year the Athenian farmer plows, unless he wisely determines to let his field lie fallow for the nonce; and the summer plowing on hybrias’s estate is now in progress.  Up and down a wide field the ox team is going.[*] The plow is an extremely primitive affair—­mainly of wood, although over the sharpened point which forms the plowshare a plate of iron has been fitted.  Such a plow requires very skilful handling to cut a good furrow, and the driver of the team has no sinecure.

[*]Mules were sometimes used for drawing the plow, but horses, it would seem, never.

In a field near by, the hinds are reaping a crop of wheat which was late in ripening.[*] The workers are bending with semicircular sickles over their hot task; yet they form a merry, noisy crowd, full of homely “harvest songs,” nominally in honor of Demeter, the Earth Mother, but ranging upon every conceivable rustic topic.  Some laborers are cutting the grain, others, walking behind, are binding into sheaves and piling into clumsy ox wains.  Here and there a sheaf is standing, and we are told that this is left “for luck,” as an offering to the rural Field Spirit; for your farm hand is full of superstitions.  Also amid the workers a youth is passing with a goodly jar of cheap wine, to which the harvesters make free to run from time to time for refreshment.