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- The Drought
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of his years would depart from him, if only that
heap of twigs did not grow larger.
At last he spent the whole day there guarding
it, but the people were merciless—new twigs were
always added at night.
*
One day Gösta Berling drove down the road. The
Broby parson sat by the wayside, old and stricken.
He sat and plucked at the dry twigs, and laid them
in rows and heaps, playing with them as if he had
become a child again. Gösta was shocked to see his
wretched state.
“What are you doing,pastor?” he said, and sprang
quickly from the equipage.
“Oh, I am sitting here and doing nothing
particular.”
“You should go home and not sit here in the
wayside dust.”
“It is best, perhaps, that I stay here.”
Then Gösta Berling sat down beside him.
“It is not such an easy matter to be a clergyman,”
he said, after a time.
“It is bearable down here where there are people,”
the Broby parson answered. “It is worse up north.”
Gösta understood his meaning. He knew those
big parishes in northern Värmland, where
sometimes there was not even a house for their
clergyman; the great forest parishes where the Finns lived
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Project Runeberg, Sun Dec 10 03:55:33 2023
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