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Updated: June 23, 2025
The sieve went on dragging. The women looked at Zeen, then at one another and then at the lantern. In the kitchen, the kettle sang drearily.... Warten came down from the loft with half a pailful of bran. Barbara poured the steaming water on it and flung in a handful of salt. They took the clothes off the bed and pulled his feet into the bran-water.
Ashurst, on a rock at the edge of the beech clump, watched them, and listened to the cuckoos, till Nick, the elder and less persevering, came up and stood beside him. "The gipsy bogle zets on that stone," he said. "What gipsy bogie?" "Dunno; never zeen 'e. Megan zays 'e zets there; an' old Jim zeed 'e once. 'E was zettin' there naight afore our pony kicked in father's 'ead. 'E plays the viddle."
She was given a lump of sugar and sat down by her mother. "Zalia, have you only one lamp?" asked Treze. "That's all, Treze, but I have the candle." "What candle?" "The blessed candle." "We've not come to that yet: it's only that Zeen has to lie in the dark like this and we have to go to and fro with the lamp to look at him." "Zeen would rather lie in the dark."
When she saw that Zeen lay very calmly and no longer breathed, she sprinkled him with holy water for the last time and then went outside: "People ... he's with the Lord." It was as if their fright had made them forget what was happening indoors: they rushed in, eager to know ... and Zeen was dead. "Stone-dead," said Barbara. "Hopped the twig!" said Warten. "Quick! Hurry!
Zeen has lived his span and has died happily in his bed." "Question is, shall we do as well?" said Mite. "And Siska and Romenie and Kordula and the boys, who are not here! They ought to have seen their father die!... The poor children, they'll cry so!" "They'll know it in good time," said Warten. "And where are they living now?" asked Mite.
Zalia, the procession's going up the wall there.... Why don't you look?... It's so beautiful!... And I, I'm the only ugly one in it...." "He's wandering," whispered Treze. "And what's that chap doing here, Zalia?" "It's I, Zeen, I: Warten the spectacle-man." His eyes fell to again and his cheeks again blew the breath through the little slit of his mouth. It rattled; and the fever rose.
I remember speaking to an aged peasant down in Somerset. "Have you ever seen any Americans?" "Nah," he said, "uz eeard a mowt o' 'em, zir, but uz zeen nowt o' 'em." It was clear that the noble fellow was quite undamaged by American contact. Now the odd thing about this corruption is that exactly the same idea is held on the other side of the water.
Zeen!" cried Mite and she pushed him back by his forehead to make him look up. "Zeen! Zeen! It's I: don't you know Mite?" "Oof!" sighed Zeen; and his head dropped down again without his eyes opening. "He's got the fever," said Barbara. "Just feel how his forehead's burning and he's as hot as fire." "Haven't you poulticed him?" asked Stanse. "He wants poultices on his feet: mustard."
Zeen opened his eyes two green, glazed eyes, which no longer saw things and wriggled his arms from under the clothes: "Why don't you make the goat stop bleating?" he stammered. They looked at one another. "Zalia, why won't you speak to me?... And what are all these people doing here?... I don't want any one to help me die!... I and Zalia.... I and Zalia.... Look, how beautiful!
His breath rustled; and each puff from his hoarse throat, blowing out the thin flesh of his cheeks, escaped through a little opening on one side of his sunken lips, which each time opened and shut. "Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!" cried Barbara. "That's bad, that's bad," said Stanse and shook her head. "His eyes are shut and yet he's not asleep!" "Zeen!
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