Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - The Drought
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rye, of which all the bread was made at that time,
bore thin little spears and stalks half a foot high;
the turnips, planted late, would not germinate; not
even thepotatoescould suck any nourishment from
the parched earth.
At such times fear awoke among the dwellers
of the forest hills, and the fear descended from the
hills to the calmer folk of the country side.
“God’s hand is seeking someone,” they say. And
one and all smite themselves upon their breasts, and
say, “Is it me? Oh, mother Nature, is it in horror
of me that the rain keeps away? Is it in anger against
me that the earth is scorched and hardened? And
this everlasting sunshine, does it pour from a cloudless
sky to heap burning coals upon my head? If
it is not me, who is it that God’s hand is in search
of?”
And while the rye withered in the ear, and
the potatoes drew no nourishment from the soil,
and the cattle, with bloodshot eyes and panting
from the heat, pushed one another about the drinking
troughs, while fear of the future was crushing
every heart, stränge reports went circling about the
country.
It was a Sunday in August. Service was over, and
the people walked along the dusty roads in groups.
Around them they saw charred forests and blasted
harvests. The rye stood in stacks, but the sheaves
were small. Those who had meadow clearing to do
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