which he did after some hesitation. He leaned his long pipe against the table and handed the paper package to me, saying, "We have nothing fresh in the winter. These dried green beans are from our own land. I hope Your Honor . . . "
I asked him about his circumstances, which he told me with many a headshaking.
"It is very bad. My sixth is now old enough to help, but there is never enough food to feed them all. Moreover, times are not peaceful—everywhere money, money, and always new and irregular taxes—harvests bad. When we do harvest something and try to sell it, we hardly get enough to pay the various taxes imposed all along the way. If we don't try to sell, then it only rots away on our hands . . . "
He kept on shaking his head. His face, though deeply furrowed, was expressionless as a stone image. He felt his hardships bitterly, but was unable to express them. After a few moments of silence he took up his pipe and smoked.
My mother questioned him and found that he had a great deal to do at home and had to go back the following day. As he had not yet had lunch, mother told him to go into the kitchen and fry some rice for himself. After he went out, mother and I sighed at the man's lot: too many sons, famine, oppressive taxes, soldiers, bandits, officials, the gentry—all these contributed to make the burden heavy for the poor peasant, crushing him and draining the life out of him until he was scarcely more than a wooden image. Mother said we should give him everything that we could neither use nor find a buyer for.
In the afternoon he picked out some things that he could use: two long tables, four chairs, a set consisting of an incense burner and candlesticks, a scale. He asked us to give him all the rice-straw ash. (We use rice straws for fuel and
