Corn, nuts and maybe a stray pumpkin or two.
'Tis a repast fit for the gods, noble sirs." "I can go without, part of the time," said Harry, "but it hurts me to have to hunt through a big field for a nubbin of corn and then feel happy when I've got the wretched, dirty, insignificant little thing.

My father often has a hundred acres of corn in a single field, producing fifty bushels to the acre." "And my father," said Dalton, "has a single field of fifty acres that produces fifteen hundred bushels of wheat, but it's been a long time since I've seen a shock of wheat." "Console yourself with the knowledge," said Harry, "that it's too late in the year for wheat to be in the stack." "Or anywhere else, either, so far as we're concerned." "Don't murmur," said Happy.

"Mourners seldom find anything, but optimists find, often.

Didn't I tell you so?
Here's another ear." Harry had approached the edge of the field and he saw something red gleaming through a fringe of woods beyond.

The experienced eye of youth told him at once what it was, and he called to his comrades.
"Come on, boys," he said.