Wolves killed my cattle; and thus passed a winter of sorrow.
Again I sowed rye-crops, looking for profit in autumn;
And again the rye failed, for again was the early ear frosted.
I had men and maid servants no longer. I could not pay land-dues.
Bread we had none; bark dried in the oven sustained us.
So passed the time; and as long as the milch-kine were spared us,
And we had their milk, the bark-bread for us was sufficient.
Thus came and went Christmas; and still we lived on, although famished.
At length, when returning one morning with bark on my shoulder,
I was met on the threshold by strangers—and thus one accosts me: