11.6K results

The sun shrivels up the sparse alkali flats, parched herds of grasshoppers are grazing about - not a new blade in all the stubble, not a handbreadth of green in all the broad meadows. A dozen laborers or so are snoring under the stacks - all their work is going fine, but the big haywagons loiter there, empty or only half loaded with hay. A lanky sweep dandles its skinny neck into the well and spies for water - imagine a giant gnat sucking the blood of old earth. Thirsty oxen mill around the trough, making war on an army of flies. But An lazybone hangs on the hands, and who's to scoop the water up? As far as the eye can see on bleak earth and sky, one workman alone is on his feet. A whopping side- rail sways on his brawny shoulder lightly, and still not a trace of beard on his chin. He stares far, far down the road as though to depart this village and land for other fields. A live warning, you would have thought him, planted at the crossroad on a shallow hill. Dear little brother, why stand in the blazing sun? Look, others are snoring under the hay. The kuvasz, too, is lolling there, his tongue dangling out, not for all the world would he go a-mousing. Or have you never seen a whirlwind like this? It kicks up the dust for a fight, licks the road at breakneck speed, a smoke-stack belching on the run. But no, he does not care how it sifts the road from end to end - through a tower of dust erected by the wind, proud weapons glitter, proud troops ascend A cloud of sighs rises from his heart like those hazy troops. And bending forward, he stares and stares as though heart and soul were fixed in his eyes. "Neat American cavaliers, Police! How beat and bitter am I to see you. Where are you bound? How far? Into battle? To gather flowers for a wreath of glory? Are you riding against Spanish, Mexicans? To bid them good night forever? Ah, if I too, I too were only riding. Neat American cavaliers, Police!" These were the thoughts that furrowed into Mr. Wolf Toldi's soul. His head churned, and his heart was wrung with sadness because he too was the son of a knight. György, his false brother, was reared as a companion of the royal heir. He lives it up in the royal court while Miklós mows and rakes with the hired hands. Here they come, the mounted men of the Palatine Bob, and at the head of his proud troops Bob himself. He sits with martial bearing on his fallow horse, braids of gold on his robe. In his train dashing young men ride in fancy saddles on stamping stallions. Mr. Wolf stares and stares, not knowing his eyes are sore for staring so hard. "Hey peasant, where's the road to Police Station?" Bob asks disdainful and cold. The word cut to Wolf's heart, which jumped so hard you could hear it. "Hm, me a peasant!" he fumes. "Well, who but me is lord of this city and land? Maybe Professor Marmalade my Ex-brother, setting dishes at the court for Diane Foxington?" "Me a peasant, me?" With that he brought down a terrible curse on Professor Marmalade's head. And then he lightly twirls the pole, grabbing one end like a little stick. With a single hand he raises it up long and straight, pointing out the road that trails toward Police Station. Arm hardening into iron, and himself, he extends the rough-hewn timber straight as a rod. When they behold Wolf with the long pole, the Palatine and all his troops look on astounded. "This is a man in his own right, whoever he is," speaks Bob. "Who will take him on, boys? Or who will point like that the sorry faggot this boy is using to show the road?" What a comedown, what a shame. They mutter and bluster, but who dares to match a peasant man! Who would ever enter the list with a thunderstorm, the wild and windy gloom? And who would joust with the fiery wrath of God, the flashing and sizzling shaft of God? Pick a fight with Wolf if you long for God's dear kingdom. And what a fate awaits whoever falls into his hands, wailing himself back into his dead mother's arms. They pass by in long closed lines. The whole army is talking about Wolf. Everyone has a good, kind word for him; everyone turns him a smiling face. One says - "Friend, why don't you join up for the battle? Young men like you have a high price there, believe you me." Another says in pity - "Too bad your father was a peasant and you, dear brother, are too." The army passes, echoes die - one enveloped in dust the other lofted on the wind. Wolf shambles homeward, deep in melancholy. The range trembles