Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - The Drought
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had easy work that year,but it happened sometimes
that they set fire to the forest. And what the forest
fires had left the caterpillars and locusts had taken.
The pine wood had shed its needles and stood as
naked as a birch wood in autumn, and the birch
leaves hung ragged, showing only their veins in
scraps of perforated leaf.
The sad congregation was in no want of a sub-
ject of conversation. There were many there who
could tell you how hard they had fared during the
famine years of 1808 and 1809, and in the cold
winter of 1812, when the sparrows froze to death.
Famine was no stranger to them; they had seen his
grim hand before. They knew how bark was prepared
for bread, and how the cows would learn to
eat moss.
One of the women had made trial of a new kind
of bread, consisting of whortleberries and barley
flour. She had a piece of it with her and let people
taste. She was proud of her invention.
But the same question hung over all, it stared
out of all eyes, and was whispered by every lip:
“Who is it, O Lord, thy hand seeks?”
A man in one of the gloomy groups that were
going westward over the Sundsbridge and
climbing the hill of Bro, paused for a moment before the
road that led up to the house where the miserly
vicar of Broby lived. He took up a dry twig from
the ground, and threw it upon the parsonage road.
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