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Crossing rough paddy fields, I trudged over sickled stumps of the prickly plant and mounds of dried clay. At midafternoon my world was still an endless paddy field. Heat pouring from the avoidless sky was bringing me to near-collapse. As a man approached at leisurely pace, I hardly dared utter my usual question, lest it summon the monotonous: "Just a KROSHA." The stranger halted beside me.
The following rather inscrutable doggerel was found scrawled on a piece of paper: When Death doth reap And Chuff is sickled, He will not keep: He was never pickled. For Bishop Chuff This is ill cheer: That Time will force him To the bier. And when he stands On his last legs Then Death will drain him To the dregs. So when Chuff croaks Bury him on a high hill For he's a hoax Et praeterea nihil!
Already hundreds of converts had come halleluiahing through; hundreds more teetered and swayed, back and forth, between doubt and conviction, ready at a touch to fall like the ripe and sickled grain in the lap of the husbandman. Wavering brethren had been fortified and were made stalwart again.
But the red berries on yonder tall tree seem as if they would still remind us of brighter things; and the stroke of the thrasher's flail awakes the thought how much of nourishment and life lie buried in the sickled ear."
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