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nd； drawn and haggard with weariness； and behind them the servants。 all of them were crawling with insects。 the sound of the gongs had stopped。 margaret could hear nothing but the ceaseless rustle of myriads of wings。
the two men slapped off the insects and came in。
“well；” said richard； kissing her on the cheek； “the main swarm has gone over。”
“for the lord’s sake！” said margaret angrily； still half crying。 “what’s here is bad enough； isn’t it？” for although the evening air was no longer black and thick but a clear blue； with a pattern of insects whizzing this way and that across it； everything else—trees； buildings； bushes； earth—was gone under the moving brown masses。
“if it doesn’t rain in the night and keep them here；” stephen said； “if it doesn’t rain and weight them down with water； they’ll be off in the morning at sunrise。”
“we’re bound to have some hoppers；” said richard。 “but not the main swarm。 that’s something。”
margaret roused herself； wiped her eyes； pretended she had not been crying； and fetched them some supper； for the servants were too exhausted to move。 she sent them off to the pound to rest。
she served the supper and sat listening。 there was not one maize plant left； she heard。 not one。 they would get the planting machines out the moment the locusts had gone。 they must start all over again。
what was the use of that； margaret wondered； if the whole farm was going to be crawling with hoppers？ but she listened while they discussed the new government pamphlet that told how to defeat the hoppers。 you must have men out all the time； patrolling the farm； to watch for movement in the grass。 when you find a patch of hoppers—small； lively black things； like crickets—then you dig trenches around the patch or spray them with poison from pumps supplied by the government。 the government wanted every farmer to cooperate in a world plan for eliminating this plague forever。 you must attack locusts at the source—hoppers； in short。 the men were talking as if they were planning a war； and margaret listened； amazed。
in the night； it was quiet； with no sign of the armies that had settled outside； except that sometimes a branch snapped or a tree could be heard crashing down。
margaret slept badly； in the bed beside richard； who was sleeping like the dead。 in the morning； she woke to yellow sunshine lying across the bed—clear sunshine； with an occasional blotch of shadow moving over it。 she went to the window。 old stephen was ahead of her。 there he stood； outside； gazing down over the bush。 and she gazed； astounded—and entranced； much against her will。 for it looked as if every tree； every bush； all the earth； were lit with pale flames。 the locusts were fanning their wings to free them of the night dews。 there was a shimmer of red…tinged gold light everywhere。
she went out to join the old man； stepping carefully among the insects。 the two stood and watched。 overhead the sky was blue—blue and clear。
“pretty；” said old stephen with satisfaction。
well； thought margaret； we may be ruined； we may be bankrupt； but not everyone has seen a locust army fanning their wings at dawn。
over the slopes in the distance； a faint red smear showed in the sky。 it thickened and spread。 “there they go；” said old stephen。 “there goes the main army； off south。”
and now； from the trees； from the earth all around them； the locusts were taking wing。 they were like small aircraft maneuvering for the takeoff as they tried their wings to see if they were dry enough。 off they went。 a reddish…brown steam was rising off the miles of bush； off the farmlands—the earth。 again the sunlight darkened。
and as the clotted branches lifted； the weight on them lightening； there was nothing left but the black spines of branches and tree trunks。 no green—nothing。 all morning they watched； the three of them—richard having finally got up—as the brown crust thinned and broke and dissolved； flying up to mass with the main army； now a brownish…red smear in the southern sky。 the lands； which had been filmed with the green of the new； tender mealie plants； were stark and bare。 a devastated landscape—no green； no green anywhere。
by midday； the reddish cloud had gone。 only an occasional locust flopped down。 on the ground lay the corpses and the wounded。 the african laborers were sweeping them up with branches and collecting them in tins。
“ever eaten sun…dried locust； margaret？” asked old stephen。 “that time twenty years ago when i went broke； i lived on mealie meal and dried locusts for three months。 they aren’t bad at all—rather like smoked fish； if you e to think of it。”
but margaret preferred not even to think of it。
after the midday meal； the men went off to the lands。 everything was to be replanted。 with a bit of luck； another swarm would not e travelling down just this way。 but they hoped it would rain very soon； to spring some new grass； because the cattle would die otherwise； there was not a blade of grass left on the farm。 as for margaret； she was trying to get used to the idea of three or four years of locusts。 locusts were going to be like the weather from now on—always imminent。 she felt like a survivor after a war； if this devastated and mangled countryside was not ruin—well； what then was ruin？
but the men ate their supper with good appetites。
“it could have been worse” was what they said。 “it could be much worse。” ？
。。
MYSELF AS SPORTSMAN
生小 说＋网
the new yorker fiction by doris lessing january 21； 1956
nowadays； when i meet types who flush grouse or work salmon （i think these are the correct terms）； i can more often than not be heard saving； “all the same； for good； clean sport give me a flock of guinea fowl in open country。” from there； i pass on to casual mention of the higher fauna—deer and lions； and so on—and in no time the most hardened sportsmen are oozing envy of what sounds like a girlhood spent on perpetual safari。 i keep the truth to myself。
not that i haven’t seen lions。 i have encountered them； and other interesting animals； in the london zoo； where i go to look at them from time to time。 and on my home gro