"I want to see
if we haven't a half-bushel of barley left," I said. "Barley--what do
you want with barley in the middle of the night?" "I want to sow the
brazier's plot with it," I said, "and it's best to do it now, so that
nobody will know it was me."
She sat up and stared at me. "What? His--the--the brazier's?"
"Yes," said I. "It won't do us any good, you know, to see his bit of
field lying bare all summer."
"Peer--where are you going?"
"I've told you," said I, and went out. But I knew that she was dressing
and meant to come too.
It had rained during the night, and as I came out the air was soft and
easy to breathe. The morning still lay in a grey half-light with yellow
gleams from the wind-clouds to the north. The scent of the budding
birches was in the air, the magpies and starlings were up and about,
but not a human soul was to be seen; the farms were asleep, the whole
countryside was asleep.
I took the grain in a basket, climbed over the neighbour's fence and
began to sow. No sign of life in the house; the sheriff's officer had
come over and shot the dog the day before; no doubt the brazier and his
wife were lying sleeping, dreaming maybe of enemies all around, trying
their best to do them harm.
Dear friend, is there any need to tell the rest? Just think, though, how
one man may give away a kingdom, and it costs him nothing, and another
may give up a few handfuls of corn, and it means to him not only all
that he has, but a world of struggle and passion before he can bring his
soul to make that gift.
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