It's precisely the time to take it." Across the lake, in the swampy woods, close where the screech owl sang and the girl of the golden dream walked in the moonlight the Harvester began operations.

He unrolled the sack, went to one end of the bed and systematically started a swath across it, lifting every other plant by the roots.

Flowering time was almost past, but the bees knew where pollen ripened, and hummed incessantly over and inside the queer cone-shaped growths with their hooked beaks.

It almost appeared as if the sound made inside might be to give outsiders warning not to poach on occupied territory, for the Harvester noticed that no bee entered a pre-empted plant.
With skilful hand each stroke brought up a root and he tossed it to one side.

The plants were vastly peculiar things.