patch where the stony ground comes out from under the mould and will
soon possess all your land.'

'But that is not my fault,' said Slimak.

'Not your fault?' whispered the earth; 'you yourself eat three times a
day, but how often do you feed me? It is much if it is once in eight
years. And then you think you give me a great deal, but a dog would
starve on such fare. You know that you always grudge me the manure,
shame on you!'

The penitent peasant hung his head.

'And you sleep twice in twenty-four hours unless your wife drives you
to work, but how much rest do you give me? Once in ten years, and then
your cattle trample upon me. So I am to be content with being harrowed?
Just try giving no hay or litter to your cows, only scratch them and
see whether they will give you milk. They will get ill, the slaughterer
will have to be sent for, and even the Jew will give you nothing for
their hides.'

'Oh dear, oh dear!' sighed the peasant, acknowledging that the earth
was right. But no one pitied or comforted him--on the contrary! The
west wind rose, and twining itself among the dry stalks on the
field-paths, whistled:

'Look sharp, you'll catch it! I will bring such a deluge of rain that
the remainder of the mould will be spurted on to the highroad or into
the manor-fields. And though you should harrow with your own teeth, you
shall get less and less comfort every year! I will make everything