“He dropped off! he dropped off!” reiterated the neighbours, and in their eyes trembled a tear of compassion, and at the same time a sort of astonishment and excitement at the thought that he had died so suddenly.
Hereupon all that stream of neighbours and neighbours’ wives just as they were by the chapel gate, trailed off towards Loyka’s farmstead at the other end of the village.
“At such an age people do not die, they drop off to sleep,” said one of the neighbours, and at once cited a case where something similar had occurred; there was, also, someone somewhere almost a hundred years of age, and he had died at dinner. Then again, others knew that at such an age people knew the hour of their death before-hand, and confirmed the fact by instances. These instances, however, did not suit well old Loyka’s case, because he had sent, while it was yet early morning, into the town for punch and rosolek.
And now before his farmstead they began to recount to one another his life’s history.
“It is something to say, such a great age” observed one—it was the Mayor of Frishets—“and yet last summer at harvest, he cut his own pensioner’s share of the crop, and it was thus wise: he cut along the line of reapers a portion equal to his own height, when he had cut so much, he said, “What availeth it, I cannot ply my sickle nowadays?” and he laid
