“Frank collected his strength―you know he is thirteen years of age―led him out on to the balcony, and Loyka looked all over the court-yard and as though he bid farewell to everything, and after he had cast his eyes in this manner upon one thing after another―buildings, court-yard, granaries, implements―, he said, ‘Welladay, what is the use of crying about it!’ Then he made a sign to Frank to lead him back into the living-room. And when Frank had led him almost into the middle of the floor, Loyka hung yet heavier upon him, and said. ‘Come off! come off!’ just as if he wanted to tear something off with his hand, and at that moment he fell down dead on the ground beside his grandchild.”
“He dropped off! he dropped off!” reiterated the neighbours, and in their eyes trembled a tear of compassion, and at the same time a sort of astonishment and excitement at the thought that he had died so suddenly.
Hereupon all that stream of neighbours and neighbours’ wives just as they were by the chapel-gate, trailed off towards Loyka’s farmstead at the other end of the village.
“At such an age people do not die, they drop off to sleep”, said one of the neighbours, and at once cited a case where something similar had occurred; there was, also, some one somewhere almost a hundred years of age, and he had died at dinner. Then again, others knew that at such an age people knew the hour of their death beforehand, and confirmed the fact by instances. These instances, however, did not suit well old Loyka’s case, because he had sent, while it was yet early morning, into the town for punch and rosolek.
And now before his farmstead they began to recount to one another his life’s history.
“It is something to say, such a great age,” observed one―it was the mayor of Frishets―“and yet last summer at harvest, he cut his own pensioner’s share of the crop, and it was thus wise: he cut along the line of reapers a portion equal to his own height; when he had cut so much, he said, ‘What availeth it, I cannot ply my sickle nowadays?’ and he laid him down at full length in the space which he had cut.”
The neighbours smiled slightly, and said, “Ah! welladay! How could he ply his sickle at all at such an age, I wonder? A hundred years!”
“One time while he lay thus,” proceeded the Mayor, once more, “I go close by him with my sickle, and I say, ‘Oh! grandfather
