Thresher
Admiral Biscuit
They were still working on the clearing when the train arrived. Half a dozen farmponies patiently walking back and forth across the land, snow-rollers hitched behind them, to get the land as flat as possible.
It was the same plot of land they’d used last year, but little lumps and bumps had just appeared through intervening time—they always did.
A dozen ears had perked at the distant train whistle, and glances were exchanged. Was the ground flat enough, or would a few more passes be beneficial?
They knew that it was a long way back to their farms, to the grain which they had recently harvested and which needed to be threshed, and each of them wanted to get her crop processed, to add it to their granaries or send it off to Canterlot as part of their annual tribute.
They knew that the thresher wouldn’t arrive right away; they knew that even when it arrived it would take time to set up.
It wasn’t a race. As long as they didn’t dally too much, their grain would get threshed, and in exchange for clearing the field, they’d get to cut the line when they got back with their wagons.
•••
Harvest time was a busy time throughout Ponyville—or any other similarly-situated rural community. A brace of boxcars sat on the siding next to the station, waiting for their load: they’d been dropped off a week ago by a plodding local freight that left the yard with a full train and returned with only a caboose. In a few days, it would be making the opposite trip.
Today’s morning train had a single superannuated passenger coach right behind the locomotive; behind that was the usual mix of freight cars until the very end of the train. Several flat cars, each containing a thresher and a second wagon carrying the sweep and its arms, as well as the thresher’s driveshaft.
While railroad employees dragged open the heavy doors of a boxcar and started removing the Ponyville consignments, two bulky stallions emerged from the passenger coach and made their way down the platform until they got to the first loaded flat car. They busied themselves with releasing the tie-downs, and then pushed first the thresher, and then the supply wagon, onto the platform.
Once that was done, the two stallions put on their harnesses and clipped on to the thresher
A mare was there on the platform to meet them. “Miss Harvest,” the senior stallion said, and bowed his head. “Pleasure. Are we setting up the same place as last year?”
She nodded. “Do you want any help with your second wagon?”
The stallions looked around the train station. A crowd of eager ponies had gathered, most of them wearing harnesses. Even a couple of foals were wearing theirs.
“It would speed things up,” he said.
Golden Harvest didn’t even have to ask for volunteers; almost as soon as she nodded her head, Comet Tail stepped up on the platform, followed by Cherry Berry.
•••
Golden Harvest led them through town, and most of the crowd on the platform dispersed by the time the train left. Everything was handled, and now it was time to start gathering in the harvest, loading it into wagons, and getting it into town.
But not too quickly; the thresher and the sweep still had to be set up. The two stallions towed it to the edge of the field and then unhitched. One of them set the drop chains, anchoring them tightly against the wheels, while the other gave directions for where the other wagon was to be parked.
Cherry and Comet stayed in harness while the wagon was unloaded. There were plenty of hooves and a few horns to help, and in minutes everything was arranged in the middle of the field.
As the supply wagon got towed off, the two stallions set the sweep up in the field, working in tandem to drive long iron stakes into the ground. The sweep needed to stay stable.
Meanwhile, townsponies who’d done this before were carrying the driveshaft into place—they’d leave the final assembly to the experts, but having everything close to hoof would save time.
Likewise, the sweep arm was set up, its long side getting extended one board at a time, and then a counterweight was put on the other side to keep it balanced. The shaft gears could only tolerate so much variation. In a permanent structure like a mill or a gin-gang, they’d be built into a sturdy lattice, but sturdy meant heavy and the thresher needed to travel by rail.
•••
The entire thing had a carnival feel to it, although with much more local participation. When the carnival came, it was a whole train, filled with performers and workers, and everypony watched from the sidelines as they set up, working like a well-oiled machine.
For the harvest, it was just the two stallions with their thresher—and anypony in town who wanted to help. Some farmponies who’d done it for years and decades took the lead as the supply wagon was unloaded, as parts were put into place or partially assembled in the field, and sometimes they took a leadership role for the teenage fillies and colts who were actively participating in their first threshing party. The two stallions kept a watchful eye over the crowd; one gave orders for the placement of all the parts while the second went over the threshing machine to ensure everything was ready to go.
They were just finishing the setup when the first wagonload of wheat arrived.
•••
As always, things got off to a rough start. Cherry Berry and Comet Tail volunteered to start on the sweep, and it took them a moment to find the right speed for optimal thresher performance. Lavender Fritter’s wagon wasn’t loaded as well as it could have been, and she didn’t back it as close to the thresher as she should have.
The two foals who had just gotten a crash-course in feeding the thresher first overloaded it, and then overcompensated the other way.
By the time Lavender Fritter’s wagon was empty, though, things had started to pick up speed. A pair of wagons had been set out for putting the grain in, each sporting fresh new barrels. Apple Honey sketched cutie marks on each barrel as it was filled; later on, they’d be sorted and returned to the correct farm, but for now speed was of the essence. The two stallions charged by the hour for their thresher and associated equipment, and the faster everypony got their grains onsite and offsite, the less it would cost everypony.
Amethyst Star kept track of how many barrels each farm produced. After the threshing was complete, she’d re-tally and make sure she’d gotten it all right.
One year they’d tried to make it exact and weigh all the barrels. It took almost a full moon to weigh them all and then calculate out how much each farm owned; everypony agreed it was better to just calculate by the barrel.
Junebug pulled the first wagonload of chaff away from the thresher. They’d dedicated a spot of land for the chaff, at least as a temporary thing. Once the harvest was done, Red Winter and Joppa would bring their baler and turn it all into straw bales.
And by then, the operation was in full swing. Wagons were queuing up on the road, pulled off to the side to let other traffic through.
•••
There wasn’t other traffic; like most farming towns, everything in the village revolved around the harvest. Any store that didn’t sell farm-related products or repair farm equipment was closed for the next couple of days, save the restaurants. They were making food for everypony and carrying it down to the temporary threshing yard.
A few ponies had gathered to sing, to keep everypony’s spirits up and to help the ponies on the sweep keep in rhythm. Cherry Berry and Comet Tail had long since retired from sweep duty and gone to their farm to get their first wagon of grain; now the sweep was being operated by Heather Rose and Pepperdance—even pegasi could participate if they wanted to.
The temporary storage yard was filling up with barrels and sacks as wagons ran the short course back and forth.
•••
Night fell, but the work didn’t stop: there were still dozens of wagons in the queue. Lamps were lit around the threshing yard, and somepony arrived with a barrel of beer, tapped it, and started passing out drinks.
Only one per pony; threshing was dangerous business and it wouldn’t do to have somepony get hurt.
•••
Luna’s moon was high in the sky when the last wagon was emptied, and then for the first time in hours the sweep arm finally stopped moving. As the Ponyville farmers finished marking and carrying away the grain and clearing the chaff, the two stallions descended upon their machine, opening up access panels to get at the inner workings. Every gear and belt was inspected; every friction point greased. Bolts were checked for tightness and they checked to make sure the chain dogs were secure.
Even with the anchoring stakes, the sweep had moved over the course of the day. That was expected. The two stallions pulled the stakes out, rotated the entire sweep, and then drove in new stakes to re-anchor it, and then the two of them made their way to the hotel.
•••
The next morning, they were up before the sun and after brief morning ablutions and a quick breakfast, the pair was back at the temporary threshing yard.
Already, it was a hive of activity. Foals were gathering up all the spilled grain to use as bird feed, and raking up all the missed chaff. A short queue of mares and stallions waited their turn to run the sweep; a considerably longer queue of wagons full of grain awaited threshing.
There was a wagon loaded with treats from the bakery and a hearty breakfast selection from the hotel and pub; even the Volunteer Fire Department had gotten in on the action, providing their pumping engine as a source of hot water for coffee or tea or cocoa.
By midday, the ice house had provided a wagon of chipped ice for ponies who needed to cool down.
•••
In a town this size, the second night was when fights broke out. There was still plenty more threshing to do; the light had faded enough that the stallions couldn’t see the end of the line any more. Some ponies would have already turned back, knowing that a third day was inevitable and vowing to be at the front of the line tomorrow. Others would wait their turn, and once their grain was threshed, might start to loudly protest paying for a third day.
Ponies were tired and sweaty, and that’s when tempers frayed. Any excuse to get in a fight was excuse enough—
—another barrel of beer helped defuse the situation.
When the last load was run through the machine—with Luna’s moon higher in the sky than it had been the night before—the stallions once again moved in to service the thresher, working by lamplight.
They could have worked in the dark if they’d had to.
•••
The third day was much like the previous two, except by late afternoon the end of the line finally came in sight, and as each wagon moved forward in the queue, spirits lifted. Even if everypony was bedraggled, sore, and drenched in lather, the entire grain crop was nearly processed.
The pile of barrels and sacks had overgrown their temporary storage lot and started to fill Apple Honey’s yard, and the pile of chaff had spread out to block a road. It had been a good year.
•••
Late in the afternoon, the sweep made its final rotation, and then the thresher fell silent for the last time. A pegasus filly flew to the station to report that they were done with the thresher; the message was telegraphed up the line, and the next train through would have a flat car on it.
Everypony helped clear the area, following the stallion’s instructions with where everything should go in the auxiliary wagon. Plenty of ponies were available to tow it—and the thresher—back to the train station, and up on the platform where it would be ready to go.
By the time it had been secured, the party broke out. This time, the beer flowed like water. Every restaurant and granddam in town provided dishes, and everypony was invited, whether they’d helped or not. Most came as they were, but a few ponies took the opportunity to put on their gala finery.
The stallions, of course, were the ponies of the hour and politely tried entirely too much local wine.
As things were winding down, Amethyst Star told everypony how many bushels of grain they’d produced this year, and a cheer went up from the crowd. The stallions got their bits, and a few more changed hooves in the back of the crowd: there were a few who made bets on the harvest.
And then the ponies started drifting away. The two stallions staggered back to the inn, grateful that tomorrow’s train wouldn't arrive until afternoon.
Tomorrow, ponies would start the work of sorting out all the barrels and sacks; emptying out the storage lot and Apple Honey’s workshop where it had been temporarily stored. The baler would arrive and it would be several more days of work to clear all the chaff.
They’d smooth the threshing field once again, and re-plant grass in the grooves that ponies had worn as they’d run the sweep, and no matter how thorough they were, next fall they’d be rolling it again.
And then everything would return to normal in Ponyville.
Until the next crop got harvested.
Author's Note
Pre-read by AlwaysDressesInStyle
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