Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - The Drought
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pointed him out as the cause of the misfortune. It
was in anger over his sins that God let the earth
suffer. The sailors who were in danger on the wild,
wide sea had cast lots. He was the man who was to
go overboard. He tried to laugh at them and their
twigs, but when it continued for a week, he laughed
no more. Oh, what childishness! How could those
dry twigs harm him? He knew that years and years
of hate took this occasion for expression. What of
it? He was not used to being loved.
This kind of thing did not make him milder.
Perhaps he had wished to reform after the sweet
little old lady had left him. Now that was past; he
would not be forced to amendment.
But by and by that heap overpowered him. He
was obliged to think of it constantly, and the
opinion that all cherished found an echo even in
him. It was a most fearful testimony against him,
that casting of dry twigs. He watched the pile,
counting the branches that were added day by
day. The thought of it grew and overwhelmed all
other thoughts. The monument of shame undid
him.
Day after day, he was forced to admit more and
more that the people were right. He drooped and
grew very, very old in a fortnight. His conscience
was stricken, and he was ill, but it seemed as if it
were all connected with that heap of dry twigs—as
if his conscience could be silenced, and the burden
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