Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - The Drought
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did not revenge themselves; they only pointed out
the guilty one to the God of Retribution.
“If we have not worshipped Thee aright, it is
that man’s fault. Be merciful, O Lord, and let him
suffer alone! We mark him with shame and dishonor,
we are not one with him.”
It soon became customary that every one passing
the parsonage road threw a dry branch upon the
heap. “May God and men see it,” each wanderer
thought. “Even I despise him who has brought
upon us the wrath of God.”
The old miser soon noticed the pile of branches
at the road corner. He ordered it to be taken away,
and some said he lighted his kitchen fire with it.
Next day there was another heap of dry branches
in the same place, and as soon as he had it cleared
away, a new one appeared. The dry twigs lay there
and whispered, “Shame, shame on the Broby parson!”
Those were the hot, dry dog-days. Heavy with
smoke and full of the smell of burning, the air lay
over the country as difficult to breathe as is
crushing despair.
Thought grew giddy in the heated brains. The
Broby parson had become the demon of the drought.
It seemed to the people that the old miser sat and
kept watch over the windows of heaven.
The feeling that governed the people soon
became known to the vicar. He understood that it
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