Independent People by Halldor Laxness

THE FLOOR space in the newly built ewe-house was inviting, and Bjartur, though well aware that he now had a cow to feed, boldly yielded to the temptation to retain a greater number of sheep than usual that autumn. He was thankful for every opportunity of sending them out to graze; the boys watched over them in the marshes. But though Bjartur was very fond of sheep, was continually thinking about sheep, and even had a reputation for handling sheep rather well, it was always touch-and-go whether these much discussed animals survived the winter, let alone the spring. They tell the same story everywhere, it takes next to nothing to finish a sheep off in the springtime, and such has been the case for a thousand years. From the time of the colonization this guileless creature has always had a quite remarkable propensity for death in the spring.

The family, on the other hand, were thriving famously this winter, and for the first time in many years Finna was not brought to her usual mid-winter bed; it was the beginning of March before she showed any signs of pregnancy. She had always some trouble with her chest, of course, as had her mother too, that dreadful range with its eternal smoke, they coughed from the time of kindling till well on in the day, then started another fit in the evenings. To make matters worse, there was the strong stench of cow-dung and horse's urine in the croft, and this, coupled with the reek, caught Finna in the chest and gave her all sorts of sickly feelings. She kept on looking after the cow herself, but was no longer allowed to give her her hay, as she was far too prodigal with the small supply of home-field hay, which Bjartur preferred to reserve for the lambs and such of the ewes as were off their fodder. But she fed her and swept out for her, watered her and raked out the muck, striving always to keep her stall as clean as possible, for cows are grateful for such things. She would scratch her and stay with her in the stall talking to her as long as she could. She gave her many a fish-bone that she had managed to filch from the dog unnoticed by Bjartur, even lumps of dough when the bread was being made. The cow often fell into fits of depression nowadays, moaning querulously in long-drawn despair as if there would never be another spring. On these occasions the woman knew that her heart was beating in anguish, that she felt her life empty and pointless. At such a time Finna would go down to her in the middle of the day, this woman who had so little comfort herself, and stroking her dewlap and her head, would say that the forces of good would triumph finally in the life of man; and the cow would be quiet again and begin chewing the cud. Old Blesi, who despaired of ever escaping this inane and ruminating fellowship, snorted coldly over the crossbar. The children, however, had learned from their mother to love the cow and respect her because of the milk that augments the soul's joy and induces more harmonious relationships in the household. But Bjartur would not touch the swill that deprives one of one's appetite and makes one costive; he only gave the lambs that had diarrhea some chewing-tobacco boiled in milk.