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A TALE OF THE GREAT FAMINE.

(By Henry Fielaing.)

For .six months there lias been no rain. For six months, day after day, and day after day, the sun has risen and run Ins course and set, ..with never a cloud to hinder him., t;

The sky used to be blue, but it is so longer; as the air grew more and more dry, the blue faded from out of the heavens and they have turned into a duji gray. Long after it rises, and long before it sets, the sun becomes a * great crimson eye glaring angrily at the earth that is wrapped in haze. All the distance is hidden'»in this.grey haze, so that you cannot s>ee for. more than half-a-mile. The earth is‘bare and brown, not a blade of grass upon the groiuid, not a leaf upon the trees. jWhat the cattle graze on .10 one can imagine, probably not even the cattle themselves, for they are become pitifully thin. When they come home in the evenings they raise along the road t cloud of dust that does not fall for hours, but hangs in the hot, dusty air like a. pall. The earth aches for rain. The villages are half-deserted. Tnera remain in. them but a few, who take care of the children and very old folk, tend the cattle, and tap the toddy-palm, which yields some small return of juice even in this drought. The rest of the people are gone elsewhere seeking work. Some arc in Lower Burma, where the rich harvest has given them employment; many are in the famine-camps, working all day to earn a famine-wage—-anything to tide them along till the rain comes.

For this is the year of the Great Famine. Never before has Upper Burma known such trouble as this; never in the history of the country has it been distressed as it is now. Whole villages are depopulated, and those who have lost their all in the drought may be counted by many thousands. So great is the distress, so widespread the calamity, that its extent holds us. The broad facts, the number, the figures appeal to us ; we lose our sense of detail, and view only ibe mass. Our feeling of individual sympathy becomes blunted. If a calamity befall one or two, or a dozen, we like to examine into the case, to learn the particulars, to understand the details r when, whole districts are suffering we very quickly forget the individual in the community. Our power of compassion, of understanding, is limited, and we soon become weary.

Moreover, it seems to us that there is a great sameness about the individual cases. After we have learnt a few, and find the story much the same —scanty rains year after year, till the family has lost all superfluities and retains just enough to get on with; on the top of these years- the great lamine, all crops dead heavy debt to money-lenders, plough-cattle sold for half their worth ; in the end destitution and misery—the tale becomes monotonous. It is rarely dramatic, only miserable, sordid, pitiful: and so we lose our interest, and the famine becomes to us a mere question of economics. But every now and then, breaking through the sameness of the misery, there comes a tragedy which is apart, a tragedy which is of the famine, and yet not of it ; a story whose cause is the same as that of the others, but ..✓which is very different from them. Stub is this story which I am about to tell. It happened but recently, the end was but a few days ago. The two men who were the actors in this tragedy lived |n a village far ml an 1 from the great river, lying in a small valley. It was but a small village of people, living upon the fruit of their fields roundabout; doing but moderately, even in good seasons. There were stretches of ricefields behind the village, and when the rains were good these could all be cultivated and give good returns. But in

ordinary years there was not enough water for them, and the cultivators were dependant upon millet and cotton mops grown on the higher ground. These staples require but little rain, and a crop can usually be obtained from them. The two young men were cousins. They were much of an age, and they had lived together in the village all their lives. They were co-heirs, indeed, in the same piece of land, and they worked it together, sharing the expense and the work of dividing the crops therefrom. It had been the property of their common grandfather. He had possessed a good deal of land in the village, and many palms; but be had many descendants, and on bis death the property was broken up and divided among the heirs. A council was

held, and it was agreed that one should take this field, and one that, men usually obtaining arable land, and women ti:e

palm trees. Thus, included in this property was one of the best fields in the village. The soil was red and rich, and it lay in a liol’ow, so that the washings from the neighbouring fields enriched it year by year. Tin? crops of millet that it could produce were famous. Notwithstanding this, when the property came to be divided, there was a reluctance on the part of the heirs to take this field as his share. Although of all the property it was the best, yet when it was suggested to this one or to that one to tak& the field, he always refused. For in fact it had a bad reputation. Whether it was haunted or not no one could say, but it was unlucky; it bad a bad influence, not only upon its possessors, but upon any man who crosse:l it. As you set foot upon it, said the villagers, your mind became crooked ; you began to think wicked thoughts, to imagine crimes; it was as if something evil whispered in your ear as you went. Terrible tales were told of how those who often crossed it, more especially those who worked it ,became depraved, subject to sudden impulses to crime, lost to all • en -o of right. For years before the death of the old man it had not been cultivated at all. No one would set foot upon it, even for the sake of the certain profit, and it lay fallow. Thus at the council 0? decision the land went a-begging. No one would take it: men shook I hob heads when it was mentioned, and women shrieked. At last it was suggested that the two young men should take it. As everyone else had refused it, either tl oy must take it or, fertile as it was, it must be left to lapse into forest. And so the young men, after consultation, agreed >0 take it. --my were young, and were n>t afraid. They laughed at the tales, rid the land was in value far beyond •- 1 at they could have expected for their share . they would be set up for life. So 'bey laughed and accepted. The village shock its head when it heard, but the young men only laughed. They were not to be frightened by a superstition, they said : it was good land, and they would work it. And so they did, not dividing it, as 1 have said, but working it in common. And for two or three years they did well. Then they both fell in love with the same girl.

Love-making here in a Burmese village' is not very different from what it is anywhere else, - think. Only perhaps their loves are a little hotter, the hearts of the young folk more impatient. I hey wooed, these two men (they wooed as other men woo. They went at night (0 call upon the parents and to see the girl, and they brought her presents, and they talked to her as young men do. They sang songs, too, little love-songs, hiding under a "tree near, that she might hear and understand. And the girl listened. She was a girl like other village girls, round-faced and quiet, with soft brown eyes, and generally very busy over household affairs. She like to be wooed, as girls do, and she seemed in no hurrv tv end the pleasant days of courtship. For over a year it went on, the lads coming sometimes alone, sometimes together, to make love to the girl, and yet she gave no sign which of the two she would taae. And the villagers shook their heads. “It is the land,” they said. “You see that land, how unlucky it is. This is the beginning of it; the two owners fall in love with one girl; more trouble will come.” And the boys were troubled, sure enough. It is wearing on your tempej and forebearance when you are striding for the love of a girl, and your friend strives too, and the girl will not do ude 1 The lads did not quarrel, but it was easy to see that tlie strain was becoming toe hard for them. And then they did the wisest thing they could do. They felt that the state of affirs was becoming unbearable, and they determined to end it. They went to the girl’s parents and told them “Both of us,” they said, “love your daughter; but whether she loves either of us, or which of us, we cannot tell. When we try to ask her, she is silent, 01gives a reply that is no reply. And sr we are getting to hate each other, and we are very unhappy. We wish yon tc tell us which of us you will take for a son-in-law; that will end it.” Then there was great discussion in the house of the girl’s parents. She was called in, and asked which of the two she liked best; and she said that she did not know. She liked them both. She did not want to marry yet. And ■die was

afraid of the field, she said ; it was very unluck}'. How could she marry a husband who owned such a piece of land ? Why did her parents trouble her to answer? But her parents would not listen to her evasions. • The boys had wooed her for a year, and she must make up her mind. Her behavious was not that of a good girl. As to the land, the tales about it were rubbish. It was a rich piece of land. In these bad years, that was a serious consideration. To deprive yourself of a good husband and a good inheritance because of a silly sidy would be absurd. Thus the girl was told to make up her mind ; and she did as she was bid, and chose the elder of the two cousins. So lie was sent for 0} r the giiT.-j mother, and told of his good luck, and hq was happy. But the other went away. He did not feel any ill-will, he said, but he was sick at heart. He could no: bear to see the girl marry anyone but him. He would go and live at his uncle’s house in a neighbouring village. And he did so. All this happened just at rhe commencement of the rains, when everyo ir is hard at work. Therefore it was arranged that the marriage should not take place yet. There was much work to do ; it was not a time for honeymooning; after the crops were gathered in am* sold, and money was plentiful, would oe a better time. So the lover worked at bis field. He worked it all alone this year, his cousin having gone away. It was agreed that he was to pay a certain proportion of the crop as rent for Iris cousin’s share. The early rains were not good, but still the seed was sown and sprouted, and if later rain came the prospects would not be so bad. But it was the year of the Great Famine. The later rain never came. The sun shone and shone and shone, all through the rain months of July and August and September. Never a shower came, and the villagers watched in despair while their crops died around them. The village was ruined. By October all hope of rain had gone, and with it all the hopes of being able to marry and set tiedown for the young couple. The crops had failed; food was short in the village, and would grow shorter yet; no one could tell how they would be able to live till next crop. This was no time

for marriage. And then one day the young man came to a resolve. On an evening when the sun had set at last and the not dark night had come, when the cattle had nearily moved homeward from the brown fields, and the choking smoke lning over the village, lie came to see the girl. She was in the veranaah of her house as lie came in, and there in the dark lie told her of what lie had resolved.

“The crop has failed,” lie said : the crop has all failed. 1 have been in ibe field to-day and there will be nothing; only a little food for cattle will I get off jrjy field. And I lihvg no money now j all is gone. There are my plough-cattle, but if I sell them what shall I do next year? And so I have made up my mind. I will not stay here, but will go away to the lower country, and reap the crops there, in that land where rain never fans. I shall get good wages; thus I shall save my cattle, and next year there will be rain again, and we shall do well.” The girl listened in silence. She listened to what her lover said, and the tears came into her eyes, and she cried. ‘•You will go,” she said through her tears, you will go far away to that country that ido not know; and who can say if you will ever come back again?” And, although the young man tried to comfort her, yet the girl would not be comforted. ■‘We were to be man-id,” she said, ‘and now you will go away, and I shall never sea you again.” “I will come back,” said the lad ; “I will surely come back. Do not many men go, and return every year ? There is no fear. And when I return we ’.t ill surely be married. But the girl would not be comforted. “No, no ! she said ; “it is that field. You’ see now that they were right when thev said it was bad luck to take it. It has separated your cousin and you, and now, because it will not give any crop, it is separating you and me. And you will never return again, never.

80 at last, because the girl would not let him go, he said that lie v ould marry her first". They should be married at once, he said, to-morrow, and then after that he must go away. “For I must go,” he said, “or what are we to eat ? I have nothing, and my people have nothing either; nowhere in the village is there any food. I must go; but we will be married, and then, when I ani an ay, I will send to my wue my earnings from

below to help her father and her mother, and all will go well, if i stay here, we shall starve.”

And so, as no better might be, the girl consented. They were married very quietly, as is the Burmese custom, so quietly that hardly anyone knew, and for one short week they lived their married life together. It was as a dream that week, a dream that was hardly a reality ; a week of love and tenderness, of wonder and delight, and over it all bung the dread of a great fear, like the gray haze that lning over the earth. Then the young husband went away. There are no posts in these little villages far away in the interior ; there are no postmen to bring letters, and news comes but rarely. Once, three months after he had left, the wife received news of her husband ; another villager had met him down in the lower country, and brought her a message from him, and something more than a message. He had done well there ; he had made money. Going down before the rush from the famine-districts occurred, he had secured work at once ; and, as pay was good, he had secured much money, which he now sent to his wife. “ Here are fifty rupees,” said the messenger, putting the money on the mat ; “ and here is a -Hie line from him which he wrote.” It was but a little line, for though indeed the lad could write, it was not very well. And this was it : “From the husband to the wife. I have done well. I send you money. 111 three months more I will return.” It was scrawled on* a little piece of white paper, and the girl put it in her bosom and kept it there.

And so the time went on, and the country grew more and more dry, and the famine settled upon the land. Those who were poor before were now starving ; those who had been rich were now poor. Only by the care of Government, and the marvellous charity of the peoplp to each other, was it that the country was not sown with corpses. Plough-cattle were sold to any who would buy. What if there be, 110 cattle to work with next year? One must live now, they said. So three months more passed away. And then there came to the young wife more news of her husband. He was returning ; a man had met him and had brought him a message to say that he would return soon, iiis money, for he had more money, he would bring with him. The girl was to expect him in a week, such was the message. But the young wife’s heart was rull of dread. She could not shake off the belief, the certainty that trouble was about to befall. Was not the land still there ? Could there be luck with that? And so she went about still with sad face and her eves full of tears ; and the people wondered.

It was just after sunset, but not dark yet, for a dull gray light still hung over the earth. There were no clouds, but the sky could hardly be seen except just overhead. The distance was all hidden in dust and gloom that presed upon the earth like the shadow of a great despair. The fields were brown and bare and the trees lifeless, lifting dead arms to a dead sky. In the west the evening star was . become a dim crimson point. A feverish wind blew intermittently across the wasted land, bringing with it pillars of revolving dust and dead leaves. The wind was hot to the touch, and made one shiver ; but when it stopped all was so still that one gasped for very breathlessness. Two men were walking along the road towards the village. It was still some way off, but the night is pleasanter than the day to travel in, and they went on. One laughed and sang a little as lie went. “It is all very well for you to laugh,” said the other crossly. -‘You have got a wife waiting you, and you have money in your bag. I have nothing,” and he opened bis hands with an angry gesture. “Oh,’ answered the other, “what does it matter, brother ? I have some money, and I will give you some ; you can repay me out of your share of the land. And for wives, there are plenty of them.” The other grunted. "1 do not want a wife,” he said. “Well, well,” said the speaker soothingly, “you have been unlucky. Ton came down too late, when it was hard to get work.” “How was I to know,” said the other angrily, “how was I to know that there would be such a lot of men for work ? ” He seemed to take the remark as a reflection upon him. There was no reply, and they went on again together. It got gradually darker,

and the veil-closed in. about them so that they could hardly see twenty yards in front of them. The wind dropped into a breathless stillness. “ Where is the moon?-” asked the elder cousin. “ To-day is the tenth day ol the waxing moon. Where is it” The younger nouued towards the east. “I suppose its there,” he said. The eider regarded the crimson blur in the sky curiously. ‘‘Yes,” he said at last, “that will he it. 1 never saw it like that before. “ It is like a blotch of blood,” sflid the younger. The elder shivered. “Do not say that,” he said ; “ its bad luck to talk like that.” The dust rose behind them as they went, and hung upon the road like a ghastly veil. Far away a jackal cried, and his call was answered here and there, till the night was full of ghostly cries. Ah ha T Ah ha ! Ah ha ! They howled in rising cadence like the laughter of a maniac. “ Dees your wife know that you are coming ? ” asked the younger suddenly. ‘ I sent her word,” answered the elder. “I said I would come in a week er days; she ’will know.” “Bat no exactly to-night ? ” insisted the younger. “No, not to-night,” returned the other; She will be all toe more glad.” Here he smiled with pleasant anticipation .

There was silence for a time, and again the younger spoke. “How#much money have you got ? ” “Seventy-five rupees/ answered the elder.

The younger was astonished. “As much as that ! But how did you get as much as that? I thought it was only thirty or forty rupees.”

“Oh, I saved/ answered the elder. “You see, when you have a wife waiting for you, you do not spend money. You do not go to dances or buy toddy; your keep it for her.” “ That is a lot of money,” said the younger reflectively. “It will do,” said the elder; “it will keep us till the rains come ,and it will buy. seed for us. I wonder when the rains will come this year; I think they will be early.” “ It seems to me,” answered the other, “ that it will never rain—never.”

The determined pessimism of his companion depressed the elder man, and he walked on in silence ror a time. The night had grown a little lighter as the moon rose, but the stars were all smothered in haze.

“ I turn off here,” said the younger,

stopping. The elder was surprised. “But I thought you were coming home with me ? ”

“ Oh, no,” answered the other. “You don’t suppose I care to see you kissing the girl I wanted to marry ! No, I am going off to my uncle’s.” “But,” urged the other, “you said you would come. As to my wife, she will be very glad to see you, just as if she were your sister.” “No,” replied the younger, “I won’t.”

“ Well,” Said the elder, I think this is fair.. I think you might come with me. I have a lot of money with me, and do not like to go alone; and, besides, I paid your passage money to come up; so I think you might do this for me. Come just for one night.” The younger hesitated. “Do you want me very much to come ? " he asked ,looking upon the ground and moving his foot uneasily in the dust.

“Yes,” said the elder, “I do. Come now, brother, let us go home together as we used to do,” and he took his hand and pulled him forward gently. The younger resisted. “Are you sure that you will not be sorry for asking me home ? ” he said.

“ Sorry,” laughed the elder—“ sorry ? I should be glad if you would come and live with us always. Are we not brothers ? ” Then he drew the younger again, and he yielded at last, sulkily. They went on together for a mile along the road, hand-in-hand, and then they round,” said the elder; we had better go acrosss the fields, it will be nearer.” “A 1 right,” said the younger, “ go on, ”

They turned off into the fields, and presently found a little footpath leading the way they wanted to go. It was a short cut used in the dry weather to get to frfie village; during the rest of the year, when crops were on the ground, the -fences were closed, and it could not be used. As the path was narrow and the fields on either side very rough, they ■went in single file. First went the elder

man, and behind him followed the younger. There was just enough light to be able to keep to the path. * ■* * VThe young wife and a girl Companion were coming out of the village) gate They had water-jars e. their leads, .....I were on their way to the well. .So g>er,t was the drought that the water had. su.ilj tc the bottom, and it was Lard to get enough. During the day it tas almost dry, the water cozing in very slowly, sc that it did not yield more than two it three bucketfuls every finlf-hu.ir, Imt after sunset the inflow was more copious, and at intervals all night long the girls were at the well drawing water, going tc and fro. The two girls went down the village street to the gate ; it was.open, but the watchmen were upon the alert. They went through the gate and down the path to where the well lay, between two great tamarind trees in a little hollow.It had a brick curb and a. platform round it, with a little Light of steps. The girls let down their dipers into the well and drew up the water. There was just enough, they found ,to fill their jars, and they drew very slowly, fearful Lf spilling it as they drew. The well va* deep, and their arms ache-,1 a little with dragging at the cord. \Vhen the jarwere full they sat down upon the curb to rest a ’while; it was cooW here than :.i the crowded village, and it was cpiet. They sat silently looking over the parched fields. Suddenly there came to their ears a. cry. It was very feeble, and seemed to come out of the illimitable distance. The girls peered into the nignt fearfully. The cry came again, a cry not sharp but hoarse, and seeming to end in a- mean that crept along the ground. The girls leapt to their feet in terror, their hearts beating ; then they crouched behind the well-curb and stared across the fields, their hands clasped. The moan came nearer; it was corning between them and the village. The girls dared netmove ; the path was open and the- dread ful thing, whatever it was that was crying, would see them n they went. They pressed still closer to the well. The cry ceased ; but presently the girls became aware of another sound, as of a man gasping, of .a man in great agony. It came nearer, and then was heard the cry again, “Come, Como ! ” Tire girls got up from behind the well again and looked out. It was a man, then, after all, not a devil of a ghost; it was a man in trouble; and they could see a figure that staggered across the dim-lit field. As they watched, it swayed to and fro and the nan. fell. “ Come,” he cried again.as he fell.

“ Run,” said the young wife, “run, shout, call the guard ! ” And the girl ran. When she came near the gate she screamed to the guard, and they rushed out, with half the village following. They found them down by the well, the young wife holding her husband’s head upon her knees, while she tried to pour a little water into his parching 3ip<. All his breast was a mass of blood, and the woman’s hands and dress were dabbled with it. Down her face ran great tears of agony ,and she bent to kiss him again and again. She would not let- anyone touch him or move him. “Let him be,” she said. “He will die directly; let him die here.” So the people stood round in a ring, and watched. “His consul killed him,” she said to the people. “Ho stabbed him ; and my husband snatched the knife from him, arui stabbed him back.” The dying man had whispered in her ear, and she had understood. “It was on iiis own land,” she added; “in his own field that he aid it—in the evil field” And there they found the murderer, dead. Stabbed with his own knife, lie lay dead on the field that they had owned together, and all about were scattered the silver coins.—“MacMillan’s Magazine.”

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Permanent link to this item

https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/NZMAIL18990608.2.17

Bibliographic details

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1423, 8 June 1899, Page 9

Word Count
4,889

A TALE OF THE GREAT FAMINE. New Zealand Mail, Issue 1423, 8 June 1899, Page 9

A TALE OF THE GREAT FAMINE. New Zealand Mail, Issue 1423, 8 June 1899, Page 9