kristijonas donelaitis.years

8/12/2019 Kristijonas Donelaitis.years

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Joys of Spr ing

The climbing sun again was wakening the worldAnd laughing at the wreck of frigid winter's trade.

The icy season's grip was thoroughly undone,

And heaps of high-piled snow had dwindled down to naught.Each day a soft south breeze caressed the barren fields

And coaxed each blade and leaf to rise again and live.Each hill and dale had cast away the snowy furs;

The bush and heath were glad to heed the springtime's call.

All things that died away in tearful autumn's mire,All things that lay in sleep beneath the winter's ice,

Or huddled shivering under a stunted bush,

Crept out in joyous throngs to hail the smiling spring.

The rats and skunks came forth from secret holes and nooks

Crows, ravens, magpies, owls sailed on from bough to bough.

Mice, moldwarps and their young, acclaimed the glowing warmthThe countless flies and bugs, mosquitos, gnats and fleas.In ever growing swarms were rallying each day

And gaping all around to sting the rich and poor.The queen bee, too, called forth her subjects to the task,Commanding them to start again upon their work.

Soon endless swarms of them began to buzz and zoom,

Afifing merry tunes and flying far and wide;Secluded in the nooks, lean spiders spun their threads,

Or, scaling up and down, stretched long entrapping nets.Even the wolves and bears at the green forest's edge

Hunted in joyous mood for some unwary game.

It was a wondrous thing, that in the endless flockOf warblers that came here, there was no bird that wept.

No, not to weep, but to rejoice they all came here.

For now the winter's chills and frosts were at an end,And the enchanting spring wrought wonders ev'rywhere.

Ah, now in ev'ry place new life was all athrob;

The air was filled with tunes of songsters on the wing.Some sang in lower key, some soared to heights of tone;Some flew far, far above, up to the silv'ry clouds;

Some on a low bough perched - and all of them praised God.As yet the food was scarce, but none of them complained.

Some had returned in worn and shabby feathered garb,


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Some carried back a maimed or broken wing or crest;

Though in the fields they found but little sustenance,

They did not grieve and no heart-breaking tears were shed;They all joyfully sang their merry melodies.

Along with them the stork came back to our fair land,And, husbandlike, atop the roof displayed his voice.While he gazed and rejoiced, his sweet and loving spouseAppeared upon the sill in gay and joyful mood

And met her gentle mate with glad and gleaming beak.They found the old thatch roof much damaged and despoiled;

And even their abode, built but a year ago,Was weather-beaten, bent, and sagging on each side.

The very walls and beams and sturdy parapets

Were torn and blown away by the relentless gales.

Doors wrecked, sills fallen off, and ev'ry window gone:The northern wrath had wrought its havoc on their home.

And so they both at once, as good homemakers should,With courage and in faith began to build again.The husband fetched great loads of branches, rods, and twigs

With which his spouse patched up their home to suit her taste.And when their long and hard repairs were fully done

The two of them flew off to a green marsh nearby;Then having caught and gorged some fatter frogs and toads

Together gratefully they gave their thanks to God!

You too, o futile man, be thankful and content:

Since you far better fare, fail not to thank your God!

Bush, forest, grove and hurst resounded with sweet song;Green fields and meadows rang with mingling melodies.

The cuckoo and the thrush sang their most joyous songs

That gave glad, grateful praise to the Eternal Lord.Light-winged swallows rose beyond the distant clouds,

Like speedy bullets shot up through the stilly air.Then having eaten their ungarnished victuals,Took once again to wing and caroled their glad tale.

The crane kept circling high amidst the milky clouds

And filling all the skies with melancholy song;But yet he neither cried nor clamored in the heights.

No, he just told the world that God's majestic willIs wondrous even in the gleeful voice of birds.

The sparrows and their young chirped with the feathered throng:

"Our generation, too, sings praise to the Lord God."

The nightingale alone was hiding cleverly,

Waiting till all the flocks had sung their daily song.


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Each year the last to start her mellow melodies,

Each night she starts to chirp when we are wrapped in sleep,

And then all by herself sings eulogies to God.Oft at the very dawn, even before we rise,

Her song enlivens us and gladdens our sad hearts.

O kind and loving God, how wondrous is Thy care!When we in frigid days seek shelter from harsh winds

Atop a blazing stove and dream vain dreams, and snore,Then even you, dear bird, do not abide with us,

But hide all by yourself in some remote retreat

Perhaps adreaming that you catch your foolish flies.But now when we salute the happy days of spring,

When we are all well set to cultivate our fields,You, too, resort to your high-toned nocturnal song,

And with your ever sweet and merry scales and trills

Make all our burdens light and urge us to rejoice.

But say, O queen of song, why do you always hide,And only late at night resort to your sweet tunes?Pray, why do you secrete yourself with your refrain?

All souls, the bending poor and the parading rich -The youngsters of light heart and the dejected old -

Each one and all admire your soul-entrancing songWhen you sing your sweet airs, O happy nightingale.

You put to scorn the sound of organ, lute and lyre,

You still in shame the notes of violin and harp,When you in glory raise your charming voice and cry,"Jurgut, be good! Wake up, hitch up your steed and speed!

As at the twilight you in hiding start to laugh,

While we, all bent and worn, fall fast into our beds,Then you among the birds reign like a lovely queen,

And your melodic strains grow evermore superb;But when at times we catch a glimpse of your attire,

Then you appear to be a homely sparrow's mate.You scorn the regal robes, despise resplendent gowns;

You shun the silken dress and all the gaudy styles.Clad in a boorish garb, you sing your song divine.

And so it often is in this, the life of men,

When we stop to observe this everchanging world.

Take Diksas, that sluggard, displaying city airs;

Attired in foppish clothes, he treads the village streets,

And struts among the boors like some rare demigod.

But when at times we chance to hear him speak his mind,Then e'en a simple boor must spit to hide a blush;


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And all the more when he proceeds to scorn the Lord -

And with each utterance displays his ignorance.

But now take Krizas, that bast-shod submissive soul,Clad in an awkward garb of homespun fashioning:

In his small cottage, he sings like a nightingale,

When he wholeheartedly gives praise to the Lord God.

You, O beloved bird, never eat fancy foods.You care not for our pork and spicy sausages.

You have no taste for cooked and seasoned soups and broths;You care not for sweet cakes and fancy rolls and buns,

Nor care for bracing mead or stupifying wine.Fed on the simple meals, you drink from a cool brook.

But as you sing, dear bird, do not neglect your meals.

Be brave and never skimp; eat any noisy thing.

Eat, if you will, to your good health, that piebald bug.Eat lady beetles, vain grasshoppers and mean flies;

Eat ever crawling ants and all their unborn breed.And when you reach our grove, pray, then remember us,As you keep singing through the happy summer nights

And call, "Jurgut, be good! Hitch up your steed and speed!"

Here you, O futile man, must learn to be content.Although you oftentimes subsist on scanty meals,

Mark how the songsters fare: one gnaws a slimy worm,Another, lacking grain, chews a beweathered weed.Arriving here each year to visit us, they too

Find bleak and barren fields, with naught on which to live;

And yet they never make the slightest of complaints.To you, O man, the Lord has given more than much,

And yet you grumble if at times your meals are lean,Or solid food is scarce, or if your soup is thin.

As the birds sang and laughed, a hum of wings arose,

And a large eagle soon appeared above the trees."Hush, hush, you flocks," quoth he, "keep still and cease your talk!Pay strict attention to what we will tell you now."

At once the feathered folk responded to the call,

Convening in one spot and shouting in one voice:"We're here, your Majesty! Pray, how we may serve you?

The Eagle said: "We wish to hold an inquiry,As to how ye, my flocks, fared this long winter past.

Had ye enough of food? Who died and who survived?

Was any one killed by a skunk or a marten?

Perhaps someone was snatched by an owl or a hawk?Has that foe, man, shot down some poor liegeman of ours,


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Or sneakingly captured one by a wing alive,

And then, to stuff himself, the glutton, fried the wretch?"

As thus the eagle spoke and questioned poignantly,A husky stork arose, stretched out like a high lord,

Bowed low, then bowed again, and then went on to say:"When God created and arranged this restless world,He sent forth endless scores of different living things,And to each He assigned his own life, food, and task,

And made arrangements of astounding wonderment.Some of the flocks He sent to swim in lakes and seas,

To others He gave wings to flutter in the air.Some living things He placed within the endless woods,

And others He sent out to roam the fields and meads,

Or to pule, quack or moo within some man's back yard.

And He provides and cares for ev'ry flock and herd.

"At times befalls to us a harsh and hungry day,When stormy gales sweep by, and drenching torrents fall -

When for the sins of men God punishes the world.

And man, that heartless foe, oft terrifies us all,As he garrotes and kills our lean and luckless kin.

At times he steals the young from the parental nest,And oft he climbs a tree and kills the family.

At times he to the flocks, like a benignant soul,Throws by a fence some grain and urges them to eat;But when someone of us finds courage to advance,

Then he ensnares the wretch in his entrapping net,

Or with his loaded gun just aims, and shoots, and kills.

"But e'en among the birds there are some crafty cheats,

Who to have tasty food slay their own kind and kin.

That nasty thug, the hawk, and his mentor, the owl -The ravens and the crows, and their pals, the magpies -

As we know, ev'ry year kill many wretched birds.But among us we have no such a murdererAs that sly thing who gapes to gorge fresh meats: the man."

As this discourse went on, a strange event took place.

As if someone were hurt or drowning in a lake,"Help, help! Oh, quickly help!" a shrieking voice cried out.Such urgent calls for aid upset the flock so much,

That e'en the eagle brave could not move, stir, or budge.

Twas but the bullhead bat and the intriguer owl

Who gathered needed strength to lift an active wingAnd to investigate what trouble had occured.


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A stocky gentleman, well drest - 'tis shame to say -

A nobleman, at that, much overstuffed with food

And oversoaked with wine imported from abroad,Was rolling on his floor and cursing terribly.

By his unholy words he had called forth vast hordes

Of fiends and demons and the sight of them caused himTo scream so loudly that even the very hell

And its entire domain began to steam and quake.We all know but to well how loud the rich can curse;

But now from them the boors have learned to shout and swear.

"What ails you, you poor wretch?" the bat inquired of him,Eyeing the drunken lord and scorning him at once.

"Have you a belly-ache from too much caviar?

Perhaps the roasts and steaks are ripping your insides?

As they your uncle's did, two years ago, you know,When he and his cousin ate till their bellies ached,

And their intestines burst, and they died in great pain."

The bellied gentleman, hearing these truthful words,

Swelled like a maniac bereft of reasoning.He pulled his rumpled hair from his unbalanced head,

Tore off a piece of beard from his protruding chin,And with his fingernails he clawed his bloated face.

But that was not the end. While searching for his cashAnd kicking, he upset the table and the food.Soon dogs from all around rushed in in pairs and packs,

And gorged the fancy food and juncy steaks and roasts.

But he went further still: seized a sharp carving knife,And put the gleaming blade against his fatty throat.

By now the bat's strong heart was more than much undone,So that his fibered wings lacked energy to stir.

The owl, too, was unnerved by this blood-curdling sight,But managed to dart out from the infernal house;

And that bird ever since this sad and haunting tale,Like some event of note, each night tells to the world,

And laments in the dark for that bedeviled soul.

"Ah, listen," spoke up Lauras leaning on his club,"What of it if some fools, along with Bleberis,

Blab that the rich but drink each day and know no pain,And that the townsfolk dance each night and know no grief?

Such blabbers at the sight of looming palaces

And rolling carriages, the downfall of the rich,

Think that each idler, dressed in trimmed and tailored clothes,Each day lives happily like an angel in heav'n.


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And by his restlessness brings harm unto himself.

We too, when we were but snotnosed, unruly brats,

Engaged in stupid things, and played our silly games.We boys oft gathered in the yards and village streets

And there resorted to all kinds of tricks and pranks.

There some of us would ride on homemade brooms and sticks,Headforemost galloping through the high-splashing mud,

While others, pantless ones, would crack their whizzing whips -Roll, dance, play 'hide and seek,' and scurry to and fro;

Meanwhile the little girls, themselves but baby-dolls,

Would fashion baby-dolls of hurden rags and clouts,And leaning on their elbows worship bastard babes.

Yes, thus the youngsters spend their happy summer days.The children of the rich join with the village kids;

Fraternally they play together in the mud -

And over and again say selfsame silly things.The children of the rich, too, get their bottoms spanked,

When they, like others, wet their silken featherbeds.

"I fetched to Kasparas a letter days ago;

At his high gate with cap in hand I stood a whileAwaiting till someone would usher me inside.

A woman came out of the manor running fast.'Say, Gryta,' I exclaimed, 'What's wrong? Why do you run?'

'Oh,' curtly she replied, 'Our master, the dear boy...'

Having said this, she ran towards the river bank,And there she washed and scrubbed the lad's unclean new pants.As there I stood and blushed, old Krizas came along.

'Say, friend,' I said to him, 'What do you think of that?Do not our silly tots do selfsame naughty things?'

'The boorish women wrap their dolls in swaddling rags

And stick them in the crib, down in the corners dark.Of course, you know full well how boors bring up their young.

The ladies of high birth have their dolls drest in silkTo lay to sleep in lace and satin featherbeds;

But even their nice dolls, when their pink tummies ache,Blurt, blabber, belch and brawl, like our own boorish tots.

And so 'tis ev'rywhere, while babes grow in this world,

Sweet smiles and bitter tears remain their foremost trade.No one as yet grew up just smiling all the while,

And no one left his crib without shedding a tear.'

"And now just look around, by God's eternal will

We sense the nearness of the balmy summer days.The reawakened soil reveals its fruitfulness;


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Each flower and each leaf sends forth a beaming smile.

Behold, the birds up in the skies in streaming flocks

Rejoice and intermingle, fly around and laugh,While other flocks lay eggs and count them in their nests.

But wait you feathered folk until your gleaming eggs

Shall peep and prove to be a lot of toil and grief,And then ungratefully will fly from you afar.

The same lot that befalls the birds, befalls mankind,And no one can escape the troubles of this world.

"We too, ere learning to blab out the A B C,

Have caused our parents much of worry and despair,Till we began to run around and play outside.

Then just as soon as we began to gain some sense,

Our tasks and miseries began to multiply,

And all our toys and dolls appeared to us but trash.Indeed, things swiftly change when one has to put on

A herder's garments to pursue the herd afield,When drenching rains each day lash weak and weary backs.And too, when we must trail a harrow in a patch,

Or urge the oxen to step spryly with the plow,Then we learn all too well the troubles of our soul;

And all the more so, when the living dolls appear,And usher in many a painful day and night.

You know what happens when a bunch of dolls arrives.

"O Adam, the first man of this wanton mankind,

Why did you, with your Eve, while hailing the first spring

And tasting stealthily of the forbidden fruit,Unto yourself and unto us cause endless woes?

Because of your misdeed, the Lord God branded you,Condemned the Earth, and drove you out of Paradise -

Caused you to gain your bread by daily toil and sweat.And then you, wretched soul, with grieving Eve your spouse,

Wrapped up in hides, ran up and down the hills and dales,Or in the darkness drew away to hide in woods.

We too know all too well what a transgression means,When we, because of our misdeeds, must hide from shame.

"To you, our worthy sire, the first of living dolls,

Caused never-ending grief and sorrowful dismay.Since then each year arrive great multitudes of dolls,

And these dolls, just like yours, are but a source of pain.

Of course, your Eve and you had no experience,

And knew not how the dolls would grow and multiply,And what a joy and pain they are as they grow up.


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And summons us take up unwelcome loads of toil.

Ah, wellaway! Sad tears befill my weary eyes;

And that old wife of mine -you well know woman's ways -Wears anger on her face and often sighs and cries.

So I, lamenting and forseeing joyless days,

I say to her, 'Dear Ma, for once try not to cry;There is enough of time to do the work undone.

We know that an old wheel, which barely turns around,Outlasts the new one, which keeps twirling round and round

And falls apart because of turning much too fast.

Even a stubborn horse, which hardly moves along,Oft drags a heavy load to a more distant point

Than the brisk steed, which struts and jumps himself all out,And oftentimes incurs a mishap needlessly.

And take the vender of the homemade axel grease;

He, on a squeaky wheel, just drags from town to thorp,And yet he manages to earn a goodly coin.

So what of it, if some darn fool works on the run

And twists his aching brain, until his heart burns out!'

"My father, Kubas, all his life would never rush,And e'en his father, Stepas, never favored haste.

My father many times, while lying drunk in bedWrapped up in an old coat, would curse and shout at us:

'You children must beware of modern ways and styles!

Keep living on the way your parents used to live.Be wise; conserve your strength and never rush at work.Be thrifty; learn to save while you are young and strong,

Then in your hoary age you will have good reserves.'And so I took the wise advice of my old man,And will repeat his words as long as I shall live."

The boors who heard such loose and irrational talkWere much ashamed of him, yet Prickus bravely spoke:

"Go on you tumblebug, where tumblebugs prevail!While messing in refuse, you have messed up your home,

And caused yourself and all Lithuanians stinging shame.I, when the squire sent me with writ to seize your goods,

Myself, you know, have lashed your lazy back so much

That your old garments fell to ribbons on your loins.Then too, the watchman almost skinned your hardened hide,

And you alimping crept to do the feudal tasks.With drinking revelry, you good-for-nothing wretch,

You have devoured your land, your home, your fence and gate!

Are you not now ashamed to ruin your children's lives?


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"Yes; take that red-haired ox and hitch him to a plow,

And beat the lazy thing whenever he rebells.

He must obey your will, since you supply his feedAnd suffer him to drink cool water from your brook.

And yet you must beware, when goading him to move,

That you should not become yourself a raging beast.You know how for a lean and hayless tuft of straw

The ox, at your command, digs in to drag your plow -With nostrils, bellows-like, expelling clouds of steam,

And tongue protruding, he moves grimly on and on.

"An ox must needs obtain his livelihood by toil;Yet oft, when times are hard and vegetation lean,

He has to live on straw, and not too much of that.

And oft the selfsame fate befalls us too, my friends,

When we, much overtaxed by irksome tasks and toils,Because of lengthy droughts, must gnaw a molded crust,

And out of selfsame pools with oxen get our drinksOf water, full of bugs and mud and curdling slime.But worry not my friends and shed no bitter tears;

The only reason why we must eat daily meals,God willing, is to keep ourselves in proper health.

So let us gladly eat our lean and tasteless mite,Until the autumn days shall bring us fuller meals.

"Look yon, the happy calves skip in the sunlit fields;Young lambs and suckling pigs enjoy the beaming spring.

The hens have cackled out so many shiny eggs,

And now they gently hum maternal lullabies:Just wait, ere long new broods of chicks will come.

Bright goslings even now are rolling out of eggs;The gander proudly hails his growing family

And, bowing low, presents his children to the flock.Indeed, all kinds of meats of animals and fowl,

For pot and pan each day appear and multiply.

"And now my neighbors, relatives and household heads,

Fail not to have your fields plowed up with proper care;

Then sow and plant them well with many summer crops.It is not good to live on nothing else but fats;

Fresh bread and rolls go well with sausages and meats.And so while we observe the springtime holidays,

We must not overlook the balance of the year;

For each day, biting off its bit of needed things,

Should save a proper share for hungry days to come."

"Indeed now," Blekius said, "That which we harvested


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Last year and stored away for daily household use,

Has melted fast away like snow before the spring.

Our barns and sheds, once full of precious summer wealth,Are now but empty halls for the fast whirling winds.

Our bins and barrels, filled in autumn to the brim

With life-sustaining rye, wheat, barley, peas and oats,Now yield but little for our bread and oatmeal pap.

The corners where our turnips and potatoes were,The barrels that contained our beets and sauerkraut,

Now are all empty, so we now just scratch our heads,

And hardly know how to appease our appetites.O you sweet hams, O you rich sausages and pork,

We almost cry when we each day remember you."

"Tut," Prickus gave him sound Lithuanian advice thus:

"You fool, each year you cry that you are short of food.Whose fault is it that when the summer crops are in,

You so inhumanly scoop up your food reserves,That by Saint Martin's you have but a young pig left?You dunce, if you but make your daily meals less rich,

Then surely you will have your summer meals less lean.

"So go and do the work that gains your daily bread;Earn your subsistence for the dreary autumn days.

Give to the soil its due, if you expect good crops;The field is not obliged to yield great wealth for naught.Tare, thistle, nettle, and many a useless weed

Will grow, as you well know, without hard human toil;

But useful grain will thrive only when it is sown.Yes, you but gape to eat ham, sausage, veal and pork,

And down the good repute of beet and cabbage soups,And that is why each year, having devoured your meats,

You drag along half-starved to do your feudal tasks.Go, sow, you gaping fool, sow all that can be sown.

Sow barley, lima beans, buckwheat, with faith and zeal.And fail not to sow, too, a goodly lot of oats;

For you like the oatmeal and horses like the chaff.Sow, too, a goodly patch of ever-useful peas,

For peas do taste so good with freshly cooked mixed mass;

Besides, they save so well all other daily foods.And set aside a plot for ever-needed hemp;

Skimp not on land or seed; hemp is a handy thing.Is it not good when you make your own rope and net,

And save the money for many another use?

Sow flax to please your wife, and argue with her not;You know the women's way; they need a lot of flax


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When they begin to spin and later on to weave.

"And say not a harsh word about that women's law.

Is it not nice to hear, when the gay women-folkKeep turning spinning wheels, chat, gossip, laugh, and sigh?

Is it not sweet to see when Gryta makes the warps,Then weaves the sturdy cloth, then bleaches the new goods,Then makes the linen shirts for all her family,And saves the odds and ends for the much needed clouts?

If all the women folk were as industrious,Then no one would go bare or in the shame of rags.

For then our feudal boors, dressed up like gentlemen,Would proudly sit among the German egotists,

And even the sleek French could not scorn our fine men.

"Yes," Prickus continued, "that is the honest truth.I, as the chief commune, have traveled far and wide;Have well observed how our unthoughtful women act,When in the wintertime they congregate to spin.

I found that some of them are not a bit ashamed

When their old spinning wheels will barely turn around.Instead of spinning, they relate so many tales,

That their lax hands forget the fibre must be pulled,And their feet neglect to turn the spinning wheel.

As thus they chatter, smirk and giggle senselessly,The winter fades away, the smiling spring appears,And finds neither the spinning nor the weaving done.

Jeke jumps to make warps, Pime proceeds to weave;

But what's there to weave, when the spinning is not done?And so the family must go without a thread;

The men must wear again the same old patched-up pants,The children must play in the village streets threadbare.

"Ye useless women, these words are inscribed for you.

But gentle womenfolk, industrious housewives,You need not blush in shame at what has just been said;Just those should blush who are neglectful of their work.

For you deserve high praise for spinning speedily,

Transforming hards and flax into an even thread.You merit high regard when in the early spring

You strike your loom and shift the shuttle back and forth.You reign supreme when your homewoven linen goods,

Like gleaming springtime snow, on the green meadows shine.

"And you must not avoid the other homely tasks.Yon, vegetable plots are waiting for your hands.

So lay aside the flax and rest the spinning wheel;


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Ant take the loom apart until the next spring comes.

Pick up the rusty spade and dig the fertile soil.

Look how the moldwarps raise the molehills in the mead,And urge you to get on with the spring gardening.

Indeed, the belly calls for many services.

It is not satisfied to be just duly drest,But wishes to enjoy abundant meals each day.

Of course the bellies bare will thank you ferventlyFor having covered them with warm and descent clothes -

For weaving homespun goods and making pants and shirts;

But will thank you much more for your unending care,When covered with new garb, at every meal time,

They'll know the taste of pork and sausage cooked by you.

"And so now plant and sow all kinds of useful seeds.

Plant rows of cabbage and sow carrots with full hand;Plant parsnips, rutabagas, turnips, radishes,

Cucumbers, lettuce, onions and potatoes too.See that your seedlings do not die of weeds and drought.While doing all these things, enjoy the gay springtime,

Before the summer will call you to other tasks."

Summer Toils

Hail everchanging world, with May days come and gone.

Hail men, with the advent of sunny summertime.

Hail ye, who've seen new buds and smelled of their perfume.All hail, and God grant that you see many a spring,

And that each spring may find you in the best of health!God bless each one who loves our dear Lithuania old -

And who Lithuanian speaks while feudal tasks performs -

God grant that he may see many a happy spring,And after each gay spring, a summer full of joy."

So spake ere Whitsuntide old Prickus to the boors,As he was charging them with sundry feudal tasks.

"In sooth," he said, "a body full of energyIs God's most precious gift to any mortal man.


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For he who toils and sweats each day from dawn to dusk,

Subsists from day to day on plain and simple meals,

And after ev'ry meal gives humble thanks to God,Each night turns to his bed in peace and sleeps at ease.

He needs not envy him who wears expensive clothes,

But ill at ease each day picks up his spoon in hand.What if some Mykolas possesses a large paunch

And proudly bears it like an overblown balloon,Yet like a stinking brute, harrassed by his misdeeds,

Has no peace, and like Cain, each day fears Heaven's wrath?

And what if Diksas kneels beside his treasure chestAnd gloats as through his hands he pours his hoarded gold,

Yet dares not use a coin for his most urgent need,But like a madman gulps unseasoned, uncooked food,

And wearing filthy rags creeps down the village street?

"We meek Lithuanians, we bast-shod submissive souls,

With lords and their valets may never well compare;But neither do we suffer their strange maladies.Lo, in their urban halls they moan and groan so much,

That oft they come to us in search of health and rest.There, in the city, one is laid up with his gout;

Another's aches and pains require a doctor's aid.Why do these countless ills torment the luckless rich?

Why does untimely death so often strike them down?

It is because they scorn the fruitful work of boors,Lead sinful lives, loaf, sleep too long and eat too much.But here we simple boors, held by the lords as knaves,

Fed on unwinnowed bread and pallid buttermilk,Work on the quick each day, as simple folk must do;And if at times we taste a little bit of meat,

Or have a piece of ham, or a dish of warm soup,

Then all the better we perform our daily work."

"I say," spake Lauras leaning on his crooked club,"Thank God that we have passed the spring in all good health,

And that the summertime still finds us all alive.Look yon, the beaming sun has ceased to climb the skies

And having blazed its course up to the summit clear,

Just sits high up in space and smiles upon us all.Observe how heaven's eye, like a great torch ablaze,

Each day dries up the wreaths and garlands of this earth,And turns all the sweet blooms into mere provender.

Many a lily white, many a flamming rose,

Has lost its maiden look, and has become a hag.Many a bud and bloom's been plucked by human hands -


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Adored a while for its great beauty and sweet scent -

Then, withered, carelessly upon some trash-heap thrown.

"And even our gay birds have suffered selfsame fate.The cuckoo's sad refrain, the nightingale's glad song,

The warbling of the lark beneath the sailing clouds -Now we but seldom hear, or never hear at all.Many a small bird, born in a protected nest,

Now seeks for daily food without parental care -

Repeating its tribe's sounds, chirps a sad melody.Yea, in such a brief time this world has greatly changed.

"Observing such events at my enfeebled age,

At times I sigh with pain and cry in a sad voice:'Alack a day! How vain and brief is human life!'

Indeed, as David wrote, we are but fragile things;Like flowers of the field, we bud and bloom and die.Each mortal at his birth is like a little bud,From which ere long evolves a blossom sweet and fair,

Which blows a fleeting while, then casts away its hues,

Produces its new seed, and ends its little life.Thus like ephemeral blossoms, we come and go.

"Here we both, rich and poor alike, shed childhood tears,And show but feeble bud of our unfolding age.

Then, when the time arrives to offer a full bloom -One, like a fondling vain, brought up in luxury,

Another, like a rogue, uncultured and untrained -Waste priceless energy on rash and stupid things.

But when the thin mustache begins to shade the lip,And when the time's at hand for serious, useful work,

Then all the childhood pranks and antics steal away.

Besides, so often as the children dance and kick,Death mixes in and chokes young lives with his smallpox

Or with his typhus germs twirls down the helpless tots.And for the boys and girls he sharpens his old scythe,Without the slightest care for their attractive looks;

He blindly strikes them down, and their sweet smiles and curls

Lose all the grace and charm, and turn again to naught.Alas! This human life is piteous and brief,

Like that of the bright buds that scent the meadows fair."

As this discourse went on, a frenzied watchman came,And jumping up and down, began to curse so loud,

That e'en the solid ground and ev'ry object shook:"I hope the thunder strikes... the devil takes you all..."

Ah, man O man, have you become bereft of mind?


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Why do you swear and curse? Is Satan haunting you?

You rogue, why do you shout? What happened to you now?

But he swore all the more and acted like a fiend,That e'ven the flocks of birds up in the skies were shocked.

And even the sly fox, with bushy tale let down,

And the elusive hare, with his long ears cocked up,All out of breath, ran for the nearest shrubs to hide.

The toads and frogs, likewise were greatly terrified,And with their young at once dived down into the pond.

And e'en the rats with mice and owls, in their dark holes,

Because of this man's hellish rage, grew faint and swooned,And many unnerved sparrows tumbled off the roof.

So shocking were the words the angry watchman screamed.

"Woe," Selmas cried, "There are too many godless men,

On whose infernal tongues debauching devils dance.Too oft many a fool, when the glad dawn appears,

Not knowing how to pray, and too remiss to read,With curses on his lips crawls out of his foul bed;Then, having cursed and damned his children and his home,

Sends out his family to do the daily work.And at the table, too, when it is time to eat,

With his satanic words beatifies the food,Then cuts the loaf of bread and gulps the steaming soup.

With curses on his lips he starts his daily work,

With Satan in his heart he turns to bed at night.

"When a fat lordling swears, that's nothing new at all;

He, having sold himself to servitude of hell,Is too ashamed to pray, treats heaven as a joke,

And like an animal, when it is time to die,He dies a swinish death, wallowing in refuse.

But when a wreched boor, subsisting on pale whey,Half-dead and half-alive from brutish feudal work,

With curses on his lips begins his daily work,That's something really new and most pitiable!

And yet such acts and deeds occur every day."

As Selmas spoke, the door swung open with a squeek.A summons in his hand, old Prickus walked inside.

"Now, men," the chief commune began to charge the boors,"Our lord bids in a day to start the feudal tasks,

And orders us to fetch the muck out of his stalls.

So have your horses fed and wagon axles greased;

Bring pitchforks of your own, and take along your hooks.You know what tools you need for pitching of manure,


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But listen now my brother and I will tell you more.

Yea; you and I know well serfdom's regretful lot,

How everyday boors must bend their breaking backs,And drag like burden beasts a load of cares and woes.

No mortal can tell all the heartaches of the serfs!

You know that each year when the summer reappearsEvery fool begins to push the boors around:

Kasparas, with raised crest upon his shallow head,Like a cock chasing hens, intimidates his men.

But his stooge, Diksas, oft outdoes his brutish boss;

He drags his rusty sword like an exalted knight,And shouts with loud contempt at the hard working serfs,

For he wants to appear much wiser than his lord,And wishes to sit on a higher chair than his.

Is that a proper way to treat the manor lord?

When such a fool has no regard for his own liege,Is it a wonder that he works the serfs to death?

You know, my friend, 'tis tough to labor in the sun,When streaming beads of sweat roll down the aching back,

And a sore stomach growls for an appeasing lunch.Of course it too, each day must be well pacified,

But then with what could a boor satisfy his paunch,When he has but a crust of bread and crumbs of cheese?

Then having roughly crunched his miserable mite,

He's racked by choking thirst for a reviving gulp,But no one offers him a quaff of homemade brew.So then, of need, he hastens to a stagnant pool,

Face downward, breathlessly falls on the muddy bank,And stretched out in full length, laps water full of bugs,As Diksas with his club chastises the poor wretch.

O kindly squire, why did you die a year ago?With your demise, our joys and comforts passed away!

O father, ev'ry day the boors, recalling youAnd sighing constantly, shed tears so bitterly

That some of them turn blind because of endless tears,And some of them from grief became bereft of mind,

And are not fit to do the feudal servitude.

You too, when with their tasks the feudal serfs you charged,Forewarned them not to loaf, but to work hard each day;

To heed the royal laws and sundry feudal rules,As all serfs must know well their duties and their tasks;

But inhumanely you did not insult the boors.

Misfortunes of the poor you viewed with tearful eyes;Whenever Diksas tried to drive the boors too much,


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And start to dig with us this aromatic wealth.

For from the small acorns the giant oaks grow up,

And from the low manure uncounted blessings come.

"A certain wretched lord keeps smirking at the boors,

And as he smirks, the dupe, derides their fetid work -As if without the boors he could parade around,And without strong manure could eat his bread and cake.What would become of lords if there were no meek serfs,

And if the serfs did not help them out with manure?So never mind, men, dig and fetch the precious muck,

Though its unpleasant smell may make you sneeze and choke,And though you have to wade in slimy feculence.

The tender nostrils of the idle noblemen

Disdain your messy work, and your mephitic garb;

But mark how soon those fops would bend low before you,If they had to fill up their stomachs, as we do,

With meatless soups and groats and with unwinnowed bread,And then along with you would do the feudal tasks."

But listen Prickus! Will you tell that to the lords?You know that ev'ry time a feudal lord goes by,

The boor must bare his head and bow down to the groundAnd you're the very first to bow before the rich.

Of lords you spoke the truth. But are you not afraidThat they might lash your flanks, or hang you by the neck?Of course, in ev'ry walk of life you'll find a fool:

He peeps not only from under an old drab frock -

From under a silk cloak he often snickers, too.So do not wonder if you hear a pompous gawk

Ablabbing stupid words. He would talk sensibly,If only he'd been taught to do the work we do.

Well, that will be enough to jest about the dung.

About the meads and fields we'll have to prattle, too.So hurry, boys, the day is drawing to a close;Tomorrow we must put a new edge on the scythes.

Hark, yon, the whippoorwill calls us to mow the hay

And to store up high stacks for the ensuing year.And 'tis a timely call; Saint John's great holiday,

After tomorrow, as you know, we will observe,And then ere long the harvest will be in full swing.

"Ah," spoke up Krizas, "now we'll have to move quite fast,

If we are to complete our many boorish tasks.O Lord, how can a poor boor end his woes and cares,

When his own family heeds not his words and will?


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And if at times they served some condimented hash,

Or now and then mixed in small bits of chitterlings,

The hired help then acclaimed aloud their kindly boss.But these days all of them, agaping for the meat

And snatching it like dogs, torment the luckless boor.

"Just hear my kindly brother what befell poor me:For almost fifty years I have maintained this house,And handled all details of food and cookery;

I've pleased the noble lords and the hardworking boors;But I could never please the everhungry help.

My thrift increases as I seethe the dinner pot,But when I dish the meats, I pass it in large chunks.

And then, no wonder, when the tribute must be paid,

I cannot meet it; so my chief denounces me

And in a beastly rage, he boxes my poor ears.And I'm not better off when the impost is due.

"But how can poor I pay what's needed to the lords,

When the rapacious help devours all meats and foods?

Alas! Ere long to begging I will be reduced.So many herds of cows, sheep, oxen, calves and pigs

I had to slay and kill within these recent months,That where to hang the hides and skins I hardly know.

Just yesterday I killed a bull to feed the help,And I'm ashamed to say, the meat now is all gone,And of that massive beast but bones and horns remain.

So now the gluttons vomit and demand for veal,

Keep their loud howling up and shamelessly insistThat I should kill for them the lone remaining calf.

"Then with the wages, too, there is much fuss each year.

A brat who hardly knows how to put on his pants,Who shamefully - I hope you will not think me rude -

Like a demented slouch, while sleeping wets his bed,And knows not even how to herd a few tame pigs;And yet the lousy knave, e'en if you feign to hire him,

Has nerve to pry from you more dollars for his pay.

Among the grown farm hands at times there is a rogue,Who knows not how to trail a harrow or a plow,

Is scared to catch a bullock by his blunted horns -And when a restless bull begins to paw and moo,

The dolt gets so upset, that even his knees shake -

Yet such a brainless fool so oft sticks out his chest,

Boasts of his usefulness and of his might and skill,And scowls when he is not rewarded with high pay.


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Just try and offer him - with your old cap removed

And bending your head low - ten dollars pay a year,

And he will shout and ask from you a larger shareIn rye and other crops as added recompense.

"When such hands start to work, you cannot help but fret.The scoundrels, over-fed on fresh and seasoned meats,And over-filled with brew and other bracing drinks,Oft times are seen - one here, another there - streched out,

Face downward by a fence or pathway, fast asleep.At times the rogues think of a secret hiding place,

Then you may search and search and never find their lair.You may blow horns or shout, or call them by their names,

'Hey, Kubas, Hans, Enskys! Where are you loafing now?

The eve is nigh and you have not begun to work.

Good men like ants rush on to end unfinished tasks;They work in earnest and in haste so all is done.

But you, you shirkers, all the day in hiding sleep.What will become of you if you shall not reform?Of course you would expect that they, on such a-call,

Would, as behoves them, jump and start right in to work;But those vile parasites just grin and laugh at you,

And if you scold them then they curse and threaten you.And even that's not all - they even beat you up.

Of course you well recall how Slunkius at the fair,

A year ago, when he had drank a quart of wine,Enraged, assaulted me and almost cleaved my head;Then next, he seized upon a heavy birchen rod,

And aided by his thugs, he cut my back so deep,That for many a week I was confined to bed.The very thought of it makes my gray hair stand up!"

As Krizas so complained, large crowds of men appeared,Ashouting, "Jump, mow, rake, make hay and store away!"

The fields, like anthills, now began to swarm and buzz;The farmers and the help swung scythes and shook their feet.

Indeed, it seemed as if an army set for war,With shining metal blades, attacked the verdant meads.

At once grim death began to strike each leaf and bloom;

The mortal blows fell on every lea and dale.Bright buds and blossoms sweet, so young, so gay, so fair,

Were falling all around before the tempered steel.New buds, like blooming youth - lighthearted, playful brave -

Old blooms, like hoary age - dejected, frail, infirm -

Were being mowed by death on each and ev'ry side.Ere long each mead and dale became completely bare -


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Except Plauciunas' tract, which still remained intact.

Plauciunas, that old sot, drank at the harvest feast

Of Kasparas last year too much mead, too much wine;So by the time he left the feast he was so drunk,

That he lost his way and lost, too, his hone and scythe,And e'en found not his house until the next mid-morn.He fell into his bed and snored there all day long;He never said a word about his hone and scythe

Until the whippoorwill announced the harvest time.At last Plauciunas missed his long-lost property,

And now began to search for them in ev'ry place.When he failed to find them, he seized a birchen rod,

And the stinkard almost lashed to death his wife and babes.

Enraged beyond all bounds, he bridled his last nag,And rode, in harvest time, straight to Karaliaucius.Intending there to buy a new hone and new scythe.But in the city, when he saw so much of wealth,

He just strolled aimlessly and mumbled foolishly,

And thus forgot to buy a new hone and new scythe.He drank away by Mikas his exhausted nag,

And in a fortnight reached his home on foot, quite broke;Then in his teamless field - it is a shame to say -

Morose, alone, the dry rye with a sickle chopped,When all his neighbors had already stored their crops,And some of them had baked and tasted new wheat cakes.

And as I stood and mused, a serf of Kasparas

Was chasing pigs out of Plauciunas' pallid rye."Whose porkers are these?" I questioned the breathless serf.

He said, "Keep still! The pigs belong to Kasparas,

The rye - to Plauciunas, who yon pounds his sickle."You know how he each year is late to do his work,

Like a foul tumblebug amessing in the dung.Now when a farmer is so tardy with his work,And like a louse filled up with blood but creeps along,

What will a farm hand do when he is told to speed?

Said Paikzentis, the hand of learned Bleberis,"My friend, think not that just our elegant young menAt banquets with young girls skip foolishly around

And drink to such excess, that e'en the rustics blush;Of late the rugged boors engage in these things too.

Some folks think all is grace that the rich men admire,And that all things are wise that they ablabbing say.

Many vain lordlings strut around with chests thrust out,


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Gorge costly caviar and glup imported frogs,

And then, much overfed and overfilled with wine,

At cards in turn relieve each other of their cash.The boors now having learned from them the gambling tricks

But grin when Krizas swindles Krizas in the game."

"Do not complain so much," I said to Paikzentis,As inwardly I praised his words, but looked askance.They say that the townsfolk regard the boors as knaves,

And scorn their rustic ways and their provincial homesAs nasty to look at and foul to talk about.

But those who so opine know not our peasantry.Believe you me, at times a bast-shod simpleton

With his unwitting brain outwits a nobleman,

But the poor thing dares not to speak up when he should.

And as I sat and mused, a distant noise arose.I thought a herd of oxen on the rampage blared;'Twas the Plauciunas' boys bringing the rye tuft home.

You know how boisterously our Lithuanians act,

When after Saint Jacob's rye harvesting is done;They dance and shout, "We bring the Harvest Sheaf !"

Thus the Plauciunas' boys, to make their father glad,Fetched home a sheaf of rye and hollered lustily.

But now the pallid ears were grainless and dried up -Just bent and twisted straw, and fit for naught but dross.But then these harvesters began to play rude games.

Mercius and Lauras dragged the girls into a pond,

And Pakuliene with Lauriene, tit for tat,With milking buckets watered raging men and boys.

And as they played crude games and wallowed piggishly,Loud quarrels and mad shouts arose amidst the crowd.

Laurynas, soaking wet, seized the bedampened sheaf;Then Pakuliene grabbed a spade to strike him with.

But as the turmoil rose, Plauciunas came outside,Passed to the harvesters large chunks of salted pork,

And therewith their uproar and feud he pacified.But as he wined and dined the tardy harvesters

And roundly entertained his neighbors and his friends,

He, too, kept drinking on and on so pigishly,And was the very first to fall beneath the bench.

"Alas," good Selmas cried, "Such be the present times,

Since many Swiss and French have settled in our land.

Now some Lithuanians, too, behave and act like pigs.They vilefy the Swiss in their own native tongue,


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While they themselves behave no better than the Swiss.

In olden days, when the Lithuanians were pagans,

From stakes and logs of wood they fashioned their idols,Placed them in giant oak trees and worshiped their strange gods,

For then they did not know the true God, as we do.

And they did many strange and superstitious things.But now we, too, although we are Christian Prussians,

Yea, we Lithuanians, we surfeit ourselves too much,And cause the arrogant Germans to sneer at us."

As Selmas so complained, the overseer yelled out:

"Why do you dawdle, boys? The downpour's coming on,And columns of the sun are looming o'er the clouds.

Plauciunas worries you? Leave him alone to rot!

Let's gather while we may the products of the soil.

The fields have ripened now; the summer soon will end.The last remaining crops we must get in at once.

Yon lima beans are pale; the peas are wrinkled up;From the beweathered pods the grain is falling out.Is not it a grave sin to spurn God's blessed gifts,

For which each one of you have worked so fervently?Say, is not it a sin to waste the precious grain?

How will we get along without the beans and peas,When in the winter time we'll want to cook hot soup?

The birds have gobbled up our spring crops on the straw,

And what is left, the pigs are claiming as their share.Thus, having loafed away our hash and oatmeal pap,Of barley groats we'll hardly have enough to taste.

Have I not oft told you to reap the crops in time?But you like deaf have failed to heed my sound advice,So now our oatmeal pap and our mixed mass is gone.

Alas! How shall we do the summer feudal tasks,

And how will we cut chaff when the cold winter comes?

With enmpty mouths we will perform our daily work,

And to our cattle, starved because of lack of feed,All we will have to offer will be hayless straw.

"And you good women folk, have you too gone astray?

Why don't you run along and gather your dried flax?

Aren't you ashamed when the industrious German wives,Having threshed all their flax and laid it in the meads,

So sneeringly deride your wanton laziness?O ye Lithuanian wives, do you not feel ashamed -

Do you not blush or flush - when zealous German wives,

With their superior work abash you constantly?Yea; when the time has come to spin, what will you spin,


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When your flax still remains bescattered in the fields?

O, what became of those bewhiskered times of old,

When our sweet women did not dress in German clothes,And e'en could not pronounce the awkward German words!

But now 'tis not enough that they don German styles:

What's worse, they now attempt to speak in lisping FrenchAnd, babbling all the while, they fail to do their work.

"Oh men, why don't you stop your well-beloved wives

And daughters young and sweet from leading useless lives?Do you want to walk nude before the German folk

And be ashamed at feasts and public gatherings?You miserable fools, do you not realize

What stinging shame you'll bring upon yourselves and us,

When in patched pants you'll go to do the feudal tasks,

And for a holy mess you'll gather in old rags?Have pity and cause not such a degrading shame;

Drive out at once your wives to harvest the ripe flax.For some of it still stands unsnouted by the pigs,And might as yet suffice for sundry rags and clouts,

But will be not enough for petticoats and pants.And mushrooms, too! Good Lord, there'll be none e'en to taste.

They say the German wives pick mushrooms by the peck,And dry them in their stoves for home and marketing.

Within the woods and groves they have picked such a lot

Of bolets, chanterells, russulas, and verdetts,And other mushrooms, that each day now they conveyTo Karaliaucius and dispose of them for cash,

Wherewith they buy all kinds of useful wears and goods;Left-over mushrooms they conserve for household needs.For us now there is none, save some nasty toadstools.

Alack, how shall we cook the stew and barley groats,

With not one mushroom saved for tasteful flavoring?

You know a mushroom picked and dried in summer time,

Improves so much our soups in frigid winter days.

"The same thing happened with the tasty hazel nuts.The active German wives have gathered barrels full,

And some of them filled up large sacks for marketing.

But our lax women have not picked a single nut -Not e'en the tiny one, a little baby nut -

To crack and taste in the oncoming winter days.Of course, most men care not for such tidbits as nuts;

To them tobacco is - although it fouls the house -

So much to be preferred to any kind of nuts.Our toothless grannies, too, have no sweet tooth for them;


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To offer nuts to them is a crude mockery.

As some one aptly said, 'An old crone's rattling teeth

Are much too weak to crack a honey-flavored nut.'

"But e'en a measly nut should not be meanly scorned,

For many girls and boys such goodies oftentimesChew with delight and praise with many happy words.In winter, when Katre is spinning drowsily,A cracking of a nut awakens her at once;

Or when Jeke keeps on ababbling with Pime,A few sweet hazel nuts stuck in their flapping mouths

At once would stop their loud and tireless chattering.But what will happen now, when older women folk

And youthful maids sit down to spin by the cold stove

And there is not a nut to still their talking tongues?

Indeed, the spinning wheels of ladies sweet and fair,Aspinning flax and tow, will cease to turn around.

And with the winter gone we all will walk thread-bare."

"There now," spoke up Jeke, defending women folk,

"Say, ladies, shall we now let men shame us like that?What noise! Whence does it come? Men, you belittle us.

Do you wish to squeeze out our very breath and soul?Prate not about the flax, blab not about the tow.

Attend to your own work and wintertime supplies!Ere long the Michaelmas great holiday will comeAnd usher in the rains and drizzles of the fall;

And yet the summer crops still languish in the fields;

The weather beaten hemp still sways against the wind."

As this debate went on, the watchman showed up, too,

With Slapjurgis, and Pakuluns, the overseer.

The boors now at the sight of these stern-visaged menBecame so much afraid, that all at once were still.

The haughty watchman grabbed a goodly birchen rod,Then shouting angrily, he threw at them these words:"Ye, feudal serfs, mark well what we will tell you now -

Old women and young girls, keep your wide mouths shut tight! -

We, your superiors, at this opportune time,Now that the summer days and summer duties end,

We came here to give you our fatherly advice.Almighty God, who has created this wide world

And given us good hearts and understanding minds -

He, our good Father and our Benefactor kind,

Who always cares for us - once more has blest us well;He's given us much bread and fodder for our kine.


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You all recall how lean was our supply of food,

When in the spring the sun began to climb the skies,

And in our boorish way we went to work the fields.Our sausages and pork, as well as ham and cheese,

Were gone. We had to get along on meatless meals;

In vain we wished and searched for bits of condiments.And e'en the oatmeal pap, our daily boorish food,

From ev'ry table had completely disappeared.But as the winter fled, the smiling springtime came,

Again the Lord gave us the sunlit summer days.

Now once again fresh food and fruit was plentiful,And we again had things to eat of many kinds.

Still later all our nooks and corners were filled up,With all kinds of good things, and we ate healthful meals.

And now that summer is again about to end,

We all, who have lived through so many hungry days,Bang our old pots and pans, preparing wholesome meals,

To still our appetites and to revive our souls.

"But man O man, fail not to glorify His name,

Because He with His hosts assisted you each dayTo work and cultivate your wealth-producing fields.

For now all that the orchards promised in the spring,And, too, all that the fields raised through the summer days,

That precious wealth you have brought in and stored away,

And therewith the good Lord will keep you till the spring.Should not you lift your eyes toward the firmamentEach morning, noon and night, and give your solemn thanks

To Him who once again gave you such ample wealth?Yes neighbors, this above all else you have to do.Then you must faithfully obey your feudal lords,

And render to the school and church their proper share -

Then pay to me what's due, when riding on horse back

To tax and to collect, I shall call upon you.

You know it is tough when the angry watchmen comeAnd scold the stupid boors with rash and ugly words.

Well then beware, and stuff your pocketbooks in time,

So that each one of you, when I call for the tax,Is able to pay it in fistfuls of cold cash.

"Your master and my liege, our most benignant squire -

God bless his tender heart - bade me to greet you thus,And to beseech each one of you to be prepared,

And save me seizures and the beating of your hides;

Because his clement heart takes pity on poor boors.Well, I have told you all that I was told to tell.


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To all of you, when you again will celebrate

The autumn's fruitfulness, I wish you joyful times.

But pray, invite me too, and all my family,When you will entertain your relatives and friends.

That's that. Now as we spend the summer's last sweet days,

Ere fall sets in, let's not forget what's yet not done."

Autumn Wealth

Look yon, the sun again is rolling down the sky:

Each day shows less and less of its majestic rays,Stretches out more and more the shadows of all things,

And in a greater haste descends beyond the hills.The winds, with wings bespread, show nasty arrogance,

And hum as they dispel the last of summer's warmth.

The weather, too, is now inclement, harsh and cold;It drives the young and strong to their warm sheepskin coats,Compels the old and weak to hug the blazing stove,

Goads one and all to stay within the windtight home,And there to cook and eat lukewarm or steaming soups.

The sodden ground along the road sheds streams of tears,

As rolling wheels renew the ruts in its slashed back.Where two old dobbins once could drag a heavy load,

Now even four of them can scarcely do the task.

The cracking wheels around the axle barely turn,

Yet splash all round about the carts the squashy mud.Few strips of soil remain above the flooded land,

As the relentless rains pour on the peasants' backs.Old bast shoes and worn boots imbibe the squashy mud

And kneed the ugly mire as a fermenting dough.

O what became of those delightful springtime days,When we flung all our doors and windows open wide,And felt the warming rays of the ascending sun?

Just as a dream, so real and lovely in our sleep,

Upon our wakening abides with us no more,So the gay summer days stay briefly and then fade.


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And now the sluicy mud, prest down by a bast shoe,

Bubbles like oatmeal pap within a boiling pot.

All things that danced and sang beneath the glowing sun -All things that roamed the woods and scurried in the fields,

All things that soared and dived beneath the silv'ry clouds,

And having sung their joy, then fed on grain and bugs -All, all are gone, alas ! and are with us no more.

Only the melancholy fields remain with us,But all their beauty now smells like a rotting grave.

Death strikes the pliant bush and the majestic grove;

Irate winds crush the charm of buds and blossoms fair,And break the bough on which a family was born,

And on which the new brood chirped out their first complaints -

'Neath which bough they began to hop about and laugh -

And learned to find a worm without their mother's aid.Now each bough and each twig is thoroughly swept bare;

Like withered rods, they creak and sigh before the wind.There, where the sly bear stole the honey from the bees,And his mate muttered as she suckled her frail cubs -

There, where the elks were chased by the repacious wolves,And where the wolf cubs learned to growl and hunt for game;

There, where the black hawk fed his young on chicken meat,And where the raven brought a gosling to his nest,

Lo, there, all summer joy and merriment is gone!

The crows alone sing praise to the ungainly fall.The rest of the gay flocks are never seen or heard;They hide in cold retreats and dream uncheerful dreams.

Alas, the gardens too, with all their loveliness -

Fresh buds and blossoms sweet, the beauty of the spring,And its divine perfumes - all, all has passed away!

The wealth that the green meads displayed in merry May,The gifts that the lush fields gave forth in joyous June,

We now have gathered and stored up beneath the roof;These riches now we cook and eat each blessed day.

You there, you gaggling geese, and you too, quacking ducks,Run - run and swim before the streaming rivers freeze.

You roosters and you hens, leave your dirt-pile a while;

Run once again and play before the snowdrifts come;And think not that we keep and feed you in our barns

Because your clucks are sweet or your cackles are grand.Ah no! It is because we like your tender meat.

'Tis strange to see how sharp the women grind their knivesAnd frightening to hear how loud they bang their pots.


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Pime and Gryta search for the fire-giving flint,

And Salomeja scalds her linen shirts and clouts;

Katryne and Berge scour rusty pots and pans,And at the same time blow with their thick, pursed-up lips

Into the stove to start the fire around the pot.

Maguze and Jeke work on the firewood pile;Enskys is fetching home an armful of dry twigs.

But lusk Docys is dozing by the flaming stoveAnd smacking his foul lips, awaiting for the meal,

Because Aste has in the oven a large fowl,

Is cooking barley groats, and baking bread and cake.

And while Docys worked up his healthy appetite,

A fat matchmaker came and asked all to attend

Good Krizas' daughter's gay and lavish wedding ball.

All members of the house politely bent their headsBefore the groomsman proud, and told him that they would

Go with sincere delight to the gay nuptial feast.And surely, after that, when the eighth day appeared,The neighborhood began to dress for the event.

Mercius and Stepas having bought new leather boots,Jonas and Lauras having made brand new bast shoes,

Dressed for the wedding ball and bridled their old nags.Especially Enskys, with care washed his gray horse

And put a saddle with new stirrups shining bright;

Then having washed and groomed his horse full well, he strappedHis own strong, manly loins with a new leather belt,And pulled waxed wedding boots onto his lanky legs.

Like the men, women, too, were on the way by scores;They also had been asked to grace the wedding ball,And each of them was drest in rainbow-colored clothes.

But no Germanic styles they wore, as some oft do.

No; each one donned the garb of her own fashioning.

Of course you know how our Lithuanian women dress

For weddings, visiting ,and various gatherings.The matrons all wear hoods, and kerchiefs, and headcloths,

And maidens all adorn their hair with wreaths of rues.

A married woman does not wear a wreath of rues,A maiden does not don a wedded woman's hood.

Ere long a goodly crowd, attired in choisest clothes,

Conversing brazenly, filled Krizas' modest home.Good Krizas smiled and bowed as he met ev'ry guest.

Then, having welcomed them to his delightful house,

Brought in a goodly jug of whiskey of rare kind,And urged each guest to drink his fill - and drink again.


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The mother of the bride passed cakes and sweets around,

And soon the guests became hilariously gay;

They e'en began to play their silly games and tricks -And one of them while eating even mentioned dung.

As the guests gorged themselves with food and potent drinks,Loud laughter, tactless tales, and squeaky songs arose,And e'en the nags outside began to jump and neigh.The fat matchmaker now was riding in great haste,

Ashouting in harsh tones and lashing his poor horse.You rascal, why do you mistreat your animal?

Has not he long endured the feudal cruelties?Why do you mutilate poor dobbin's flanks with spurs?

Ride slowly, you gaper, and do not harm your horse!

Tomorrow you will have to truck the manor wood,

And the next day you might decide to take a ride.As he lashed his old horse and mumbled boorishly,

Into the crowded yard rode then the newly-weds,Who by the bishop's hand at the communion railHad been divinely blest and joined forevermore.

The relatives and friends and neighbors drew around

The beaming pair, wished them a happy married life,And ushered them inside for the gay bridal feast.

Both Krizas and his wife, folks well advanced in age,Were happy that they lived to see their daughter wed.And pretty Ilzbute, their very youngest child,

Had wed the chief commune of Taukiai bailiwick.

That's why her father gave such a grand wedding ballAnd spared no means to make the party a success.

The butcher slew two oxen, three fat barren cows,And did not even count the pigs and sheep he killed.

One chicken and one goose escaped his deadly knife.

Hams, loins, and other cuts, sliced up in different ways,Krizas' resourceful chef steamed, fried and broiled so much,The bubbling of the pots and pans was long and loud,

And caused Pauluks, next door, to fear a village fire.

As he was pouring soups and gravies into bowlsAnd pulling out with hooks the roasts from the hot stove,

Chef Petras glowed with pride in his supreme success,And urged the waiters to feed well the hungry guests.

Tuse rushed in with thin homewoven tablecloths

And set a lengthy table in a wedding style.

Then the inviters hasened in with steaming food:Rich pork and sizzling steaks, and chicken, goose and duck;


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While at the table, looked askance at mead and wine,

And even downed Kriziene as she served the drinks

And offered the degrading liquids to the girls.But hark, my friend, what later these deceivers did.

The sly intriguers soon slipped out to a quiet nook,

Where they had hid a flask of whiskey beforehand;There round by rapid round they drained the bottle dry,

And then they used rash words, tattled offensive tales,And deeply shamed the decent girls and women there.

Pime and Barbe sang a song about the hurds,

While Pakuliene and Lauriene praised their hens.Dake sang of her geese, Jeke - about her ducks,

And each one strived hard to outsing the rest of them.The quieter women sat aside in their own group

And chatted all about their homes and families.

You know the women's way: they always talk and talk,Wherever they may meet, but seldom say a thing.

As the guests spoke and sang, the orchestra convened,Took out their instruments and struck a boorish tune.

Plyckius twanged cymbal; Kubas scraped his violin;Znairiuks, with face puffed out, played his old wooden fife.

Enskys now called upon the smiling country girlsTo come forward and dance with the proud rustic men.

Klisis, with ugly boots, rushed up and seized Pime;

Kairiuks, with wooden shoes, dragged Tuse to the floor,Where they twirled, jumped and kicked in good Lithuanian style.Some jesters purposely wore their outworn bast shoes;

Some shoeless and some coatless made amusing pranks.You know how the slow boors, when filled with food and drinksAt weddings improvise all kinds of clowning jests.

But listen now and hear what else ere long occured:Among the guests appeared two uninvited men,

The twain were Slunkius and Peleda, whom you know.Krizas confronted them with harsh and angry words;

His wife, because of that, fell ill with belly-ache,And moaned unceasingly. But Krizas still went on:

" Tis shame, 'tis brazen shame for you men to sneak in,

Where but invited guests are being entertained!How dare you enter here where you are wanted not?

Be gone, and do not come again into this house,Until you are informed that you are welcome here!"

Because of this tumult the guests were so upset

That they grew silent, did not move, and did not smoke;Some men feared trouble so that e'en their pipes they dropped.


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And the musicians, too, became so terrified

That with their instruments they crawled beneath the beds.

The twirling dancing ceased; the raucous songs died down;There was no word, no sound, no motion in the house.

The songs about the roosters, chickens, ducks and geese,

The tales about the horses, oxen, bears and wolves,Because of this encounter, ended all at once.

The frightened guests just stood and held their very breath,Not knowing what to do in the exigency -

Until enraged Enskys picked up a birchen rod

And beat both Slunkius and Peleda black and blue -Then grabbed each by the hair and threw them both outside.

Now do not take alarm at such an uncouth scene.

Lords, in their own proud way, often are drunken too,

And then they, just like we, play boorish tricks and laugh.It's true, many a boor is rude and rough and crude,

And oft at gatherings his talk is coarse and vile,And shames the wedding ball or the baptismal feast;But do not think that lords and ladies of high rank

Speak but in accents sweet and of but holy things.A drunkard even among them, when temulent,

Is not ashamed to blab the boorish brazen tales.

Said Prickus, "Well, since I became the chief commune,I've seen a lot of our high lordlings and their deeds;Oh, I've watched them much - how they eat, and drink and dance..

Of late it fell to me to take a document

Prom a high lord to a most high official,And at the latter's house I saw and heard strange things.

I, as a servant should, walked in without a cap,Bowed low, and in my hand I held the lordly scroll;

Relieved of it soon, I crept into the cuisine,To see what kind of bites were being baked and steamed.

Long being used to mix among them as a friend,I had no fear of rich or of high-ranking men.

Here three befattened cooks appeared before my eyes:One sluggard was eviscerating a black hawk;

Another, tearing with his nails an outstreched hare,

Was clearing nests of curling worms from the entrails;The third, with two ungainly ladles in his hands,

Into a steaming pot was packing ugly frogs -The delicacies that the rich enjoy so much.

"As I looked on, so queasy did my stomach grow,That I rushed through the door and there I vomited.


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Lead their own servants, too, along infernal ways.

The Lord and Holy Writ, the churches and the faith -

High hymns and pious psalms, fasts, offerings and prayers -To these apostates smell like rotting barn manure.

Blinded by cards and comedies the errant lords

Leave their dissolute servants to transgress and laugh.O what's become of decency these sorry days!"

And as the tales died down - the guests were set to leave -

A bas-shod servitor of Bleberis rushed in,Asqualling: "Men, rejoice! New feasts are coming soon!

Hear how Bendikas kills a gander in a shed,And Paikzentis slaughters a fattened full-grown ram.

And Vauskus, yonder, slays his single horned bull,

While Mikols in the garden singes butchered shoat

With flaming straw - the smoke for miles beclouds the skiesAnd dims the sun, the stars, and e'en the frigid moon.

There'll be a rich supply of sausages and meats!Many a seasoned ham and side of bacon sweetBeneath the roofs of thrifty boors are being smoked,

And yet still more of meats are being drest and cured.Again we'll eat and drink in good Lithuanian style -

Forgetting woes and cares, we will repair our health!"

But pray, do not assume on hearing these strange talesThat they are told as just droll stories on ourselves.

Nay, nay; too much in our green fields we bend our backs;

Too fast we rush and run while doing our mean tasks.

We fetch and spread manure, we plow and sow the soil;We mow and make the hay and store it 'neath the roof.

We gather Earth's new wealth into each barn and shed.Our work is arduous, our life ir sorrowful.

Too oft the drenching rains pour on our ill-clad backs;Too oft the blazing sun beats down on our poor heads.

Many a day we eat insipid, tasteless meals,Many a day we have naught but dry crusts of bread;

Many a time we sip but weak, ill-tasting soup,Many a time we drink stale water from a pool.

Many a day we sweat, many a night we grieve;

And all the while sad tears furrow our care-worn cheeks.We are the indigent and overburdened souls!

And now that we are through with our hard summer tasks,

Let's get together now and hold a merry feast.

For such a purpose God gave us abundant wealth,And we, who are worn out by never-ending tasks,


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Must now regain our strength by crunching tasty cuts.

As work we must, since God told all of us to eat,

So eat we must that we may stay in proper health.Then let's not hesitate to kill and slay our food.

Man, slaughter right away that young befattened ox;

Slay few sheep and, too, spare not that hornless ram;Put chickens, ducks and geese into that big clay pot;

Then butcher those gray shoats, and that corpulant sow;Eat to your precious health homemade groats blood pudding,

Take chitterlings and fat and make fresh condiments.

If that does not suffice, then take a goodly tripeAnd stuff it with chopped lungs until it almost bursts.

Too, make a lot of that so useful liverwurst:For such conserves will prove to be a handy thing.

Remember, many springs are very long and lean.

Is not it nice to taste some crispy bacon stripsWhile pitching the manure or harvesting the crops,

Or to munch seethed ham while doing work indoors?

"Yea," Lauras said, "meats should be handled frugally.

Good sense is needed in the fall when meats are cured,And reason should be followed when the meats are used.

Is it a proper thing for folk of meager meansTo eat but ham and pork as soon as the fall comes,

And in the taverns drink away their little wealth?

Now, you have heard of late how indiscreet Docys,By spending lavishly and drinking senselessly,Lost all his earthly wealth and turned into a tramp.

Boy, as you eat and drink, fail not to be discreet.The year has many days; each day is slow and long,And each requires its share of needed nutriment.

Each day the breakfast, lunch and supper rolls around

And calls for food to pacify the stomach's groans.

And then the rest breaks, too, many an afternoon,

When farm tasks multiply, gape for some tasty snacks.

"Then feast not constantly, as if each day you'd holdA wedding ball or a baptismal gathering.

Nay; do not entertain your stomach ev'ry day,

And waste not foolishly your scanty food supplies;Be sure your meats and fats will last the whole year through.

Now, parsnips, carrots, squash, dill pickles, radishes,Beets, rutabagas, cole, beet tops, peas, sauerkraut,

And lima beans, when cooked with proper seasoning -

Well-balanced buckwheat hash and tasty barley groats,As well as oatmeal pap, when boiled in a clean pot;


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Have you forgotten how the boss lashed out your hide?'

His words humiliated me so terribly,

I wished there was a place to hide my reddened face -And all the more, because the serfs sang jeering songs.

When this ordeal was over, I was much undone.

Just as the springtime snow, despoiled by wind and rain,Though present here and there, is useless to the sledge,

So I thenceforth was an abased and abject man.

"But, ah, when I was young - where are those happy days? -When I was young and strong, all people honored me.

Whether a lord, a boor, a servant, or a maid -A pantsless child, a babe still suckling at the breast -

By one and all I was admired and honored well.

But now, when I am old, all hail me as a fool;

Both rich and poor alike defame the chief commune.Each morning as I groom and saddle my old nag,

I see there on his neck his worn and tattered mane,I sigh heart-stricken at the thought of my old age;Then when I ride upon his back in lashing rain,

And he plods faithfully down the wet, winding road,I pity him so much that tears come to my eyes -

And all the more if I have just been beaten up.Just think: I care that much for my old senseless beast,

On whose back for twelve years I've ridden far and wide,

And made uncounted trips throughout the bailiwick.But I - Lord pity me, the hoary chief commune -Know no sincere respect and hear no word of praise!"

"Look here," spoke up Enskys, unsheathing a large knife,

"My tender-hearted friend, why do you prate and frown?To you, just like to me, oft falls such a remorse.

This elk-horn-handled knife, forged on an anvil cold,You see it bears the shape of a pale waning moon,

Or even of the harsh, old eagle's crooked beak.Each time I hold this knife, I see the ruthless Death -

Just as the artist's hand so vividly portrays -With the slaughterous scythe, that chills the hearts of men.

My friend, for this old knife, this worn and blunted knife,

I feel so sorry that I oft can't hold my tears.Because for thirteen years with it I have sliced pork

And sausages at parties, feasts and wedding balls;It slipped through goodly chunks of meats with graceful ease,

And even split the ribs and bones like a sharp ax,

As Mikas and Docys will readily attest.


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"But that is not the end; I'll tell you even more.

Well, I - just listen brother, what befell to me,

And what quite oft befalls to many boors each year,When they proceed to make the new bast shoes they need,

Or when they feel an urge to hunt for tasty game.

Oh I, a stupid knave, acting uncautiously,Into the forest slipped to steel bast, logs, and wood.

Of course, many a time the forester caught me,And, having thrashed me well like any wretched thief,

Each time he, like a rogue, deprived me of my ax;

But luckily he never took my horse - not yet.And, too, I did not steal as some low rascals do,

Who in the winter sneak into the forests wide,Chop down but mighty oaks and sturdy maple trees,

Then lug the stolen logs down to the nearest town,

Then sell them and drink up all their ill-gotten gains.Whenever I stole wood, or any other thing,

Nay, I was not ashamed to stretch my hand for it,

Because I stole not for myself, but for the lords.You know how sweet it is to pay the yearly scot

To the cheftains when due; else, the mean watchmen call

And squeeze us, until they squeeze out the cash from us.

"Ah, my dear brother, please be not surprised at me,

Nor tell the forester that Obrys, my hired hand,

Each autumn makes many a trip for stealing wood.I beam with pleasure when he does these tasks for me.Each time he takes my team to the forbidden woods,

Delightfully I give him two large sausages;And each time he returns uncaught by the woodsman,Then gladly I present the third sausage to him -

Or, if the sausages are gone, I give a cheese.

And then, when we've built up a goodly pile of wood,

We take it load by load to town and sell it there,

And save the hard-earned pennies for such yearly needsAs contributions, sundry dues and excise tax.

And so you see, the theft of wood requires good sense.

It is but clumsy fools who, by their stealing wood,Or smuggling bundles of tobacco banned by law,

Bring on themselves great shame and painful punishment.

Besides, among the boors there are some renegades,Who, having eaten up their pork and sausages

For a mere sip of rye or a quaff of stale brew,Yea, sink so low, they lie and falsify like Jews.

"Now in the thorp where I each day cook my old pot,


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Two scoundrels live in their dilapidated shacks.

One of the twain is called Peleda by the serfs;

The other bears the name Slunkius - a nickname.We all know boors at times invent fantastic tales,

And all the more when drunk at feasts and wedding balls,

When in a swinish way they start their loutish jests.I built my new house here only a year ago,

And therefore I as yet know not my neighbors well,And know not all about their virtues and their faults;

But of Peleda and of Slunkius I have heard -

And what I heard of them made my knees shake in fear.Just listen, brother, and you will hear such strange things

That will make your gray hair stand up on your old head.

"Those stinkers have such huts, that when you look at them

They seem to be but ugly piles of wood and straw.When you look up you see the disarrayed thatch roofs,

Torn up by storm and gale and twisted by harsh winds,With many loosened patches falling to the ground.Beneath the roof the rotted beams and gables sway,

And hanging strips of boards, tied with old rags and bastTo the decaying rafters, dangle here and there.

And when you cast your eyes down inside these foul huts,You see but weather-beaten, tumble-down pig pens:

In ev'ry nook and corner garbage and manure.

Those two are not ashamed to keep pigs in their homes,And if you criticize, they'll curse you long and loud.

"The other day I met Peleda on the road,Whereat I spoke to him about his swinishness

And as a neighbor, gave him sensible advice.Said I, 'You filthy pig, have you no shame at all?

You, like a tumblebug, wade in the filthy muck,So now you even smell like a foul tumblebug.

Some days ago I passed by your unsightly shack,And so I stopped by it to take a closer look.

As there I stood and watched, my horse gave out a neigh;A rafter tumbled down from your ramshackle house,

And window panes began to rattle, crack, and fall.

Inside the house - mind you what I am telling now -Three lean, blackspotted sows with their blackspotted young,

As in a slaghterhouse, began to squeak and squeal,Then through the windows they jumped outside one by one.

" 'I, never having seen such things in all my life,Was so surprised the hair stood right up on my head!


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Peleda, you foul thing, with Slunkius, your vile friend,

You both should be a

kristijonas donelaitis.years

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