Independent People by Halldor Laxness

FIVE days' blizzard-it was simply incredible how far the sheep could decline in such a short space of time. And since they could not be persuaded to touch the mouldy hay from the out-fields, the only alternative was to feed them on the home-field hay, which hitherto had been reserved for the cow and the lambs. But how long would the manured hay last if it was to become the sole fodder for the entire stock? There were only two or three feet of the stack left. The ewes of course had to be considered first. But it was equally futile to deprive the cow of her manured hay and put her on the other; she refused to look at it, grumbled sullenly over her full manger, yielded less and ever less milk. She would have lost the use of her legs long before the time that pasture could be expected for her, perhaps as late as Midsummer Day, in a capricious future. It was conceivable, however, if only the weather improved and the ground cleared again, that he might manage to keep the ewes alive with the handful of home-field hay that he still had left. The struggle for sustenance lay therefore between the cow and the ewes, and with every additional day it became more and more evident that only the one or the other could survive. Such are the serious effects that the blizzards of spring may have on a little farm in a valley. No wonder that the soul is cheerless, that hope is small in the people's hearts, that there is little comfort in lying awake at night. Even the most beautiful memories lose their lustre like a shining silver coin that collects verdigris because it has been lost. The four children watched their father getting up in the mornings, grim-faced and sleepless; saw their mother's face swollen with the night's silent weeping.

She still went down to the cow to stroke her and console her. "It won't be long before it's over now," she would say. "Soon the sunshine will come again for both of us, and the snow will be melting away; then the sheep will be going down to the marshes and well both have plenty of nice hay again. The green grass will start growing and little Nonni will be coming with his mother to sit beside her Bukolla up by the mountain. And the birds-" The birds? -no. Words failed her at this point and she went on stroking the cow in silence only, for though the birds might sing in the summertime, the cow was still moaning over the mouldy hay, and the hay lay untouched in the manger. Music, there is no comfort in music for one who stands face to face with death in the spring. She stroked her in terror. Finally the cow started bellowing.