They are heavy with eggs. She never had an opinion of her own on matters like the weather, because even to know about a simple thing like the weather needs experience, which Margaret, born and brought up in Johannesburg, had not got. One does not look so much at the sky in the city. It sounded like a heavy storm.
Stephen impatiently waited while Margaret filled one petrol tin with tea—hot, sweet, and orange-colored—and another with water. A tree down the slope leaned over slowly and settled heavily to the ground. If we can stop the main body settling on our farm, that's everything. Old Stephen said, "They've got the wind behind them. But the gongs were still beating, the men still shouting, and Margaret asked, "Why do you go on with it, then? Behind the reddish veils in front, which were the advance guard of the swarm, the main swarm showed in dense black clouds, reaching almost to the sun itself. Cursing is a sign of. Margaret supplied them. And then there are the hoppers. "We're finished, Margaret, finished! " The locusts were coming fast. Here were the first of them. The men were throwing wet leaves onto the fires to make the smoke acrid and black.
This comforted Margaret; all at once, she felt irrationally cheered. Now on the tin roof of the kitchen she could hear the thuds and bangs of falling locusts, or a scratching slither as one skidded down the tin slope. And off they ran again, the two white men with them, and in a few minutes Margaret could see the smoke of fires rising from all around the farmlands. The telephone was ringing—neighbors to say, Quick, quick, here come the locusts! The air was darkening—a strange darkness, for the sun was blazing. Through the hail of insects, a man came running. Margaret had been on the farm for three years now. At once, Richard shouted at the cookboy. Now she was a proper farmer's wife, in sensible shoes and a solid skirt. Activity where cursing is expected crossword. They all stood and gazed. He lifted up a locust that had got itself somehow into his pocket, and held it in the air by one leg.
They are looking for a place to settle and lay. Margaret looked out and saw the air dark with a crisscross of the insects, and she set her teeth and ran out into it; what the men could do, she could. She held her breath with disgust and ran through the door into the house again. Everywhere, fifty miles over the countryside, the smoke was rising from a myriad of fires. What is cursing words. "How can you bear to let them touch you? " Over the rocky levels of the mountain was a streak of rust-colored air. Quick, get your fires started!
If they get a chance to lay their eggs, we are going to have everything eaten flat with hoppers later on. " "The main swarm isn't settling. "Get me a drink, lass, " Stephen then said, and she set a bottle of whiskey by him. The farm was ringing with the clamor of the gong, and the laborers came pouring out of the compound, pointing at the hills and shouting excitedly. There it was even more like being in a heavy storm. "We haven't had locusts in seven years, " one said, and the other, "They go in cycles, locusts do. " At the doorway, he stopped briefly, hastily pulling at the clinging insects and throwing them off, and then he plunged into the locust-free living room.
The houseboy ran off to the store to collect tin cans—any old bits of metal. We'll all three have to go back to town. Old Stephen yelled at the houseboy. She kept the fires stoked and filled tins with liquid, and then it was four in the afternoon and the locusts had been pouring across overhead for a couple of hours. The cookboy ran to beat the rusty plowshare, banging from a tree branch, that was used to summon the laborers at moments of crisis. Soon they had all come up to the house, and Richard and old Stephen were giving them orders: Hurry, hurry, hurry. Insects, swarms of them—horrible! Overhead, the air was thick—locusts everywhere. And then: "Get the kettle going. Margaret sat down helplessly and thought, Well, if it's the end, it's the end.
Old Smith had already had his crop eaten to the ground. The rains that year were good; they were coming nicely just as the crops needed them—or so Margaret gathered when the men said they were not too bad. But they went on with the work of the farm just as usual, until one day, when they were coming up the road to the homestead for the midday break, old Stephen stopped, raised his finger, and pointed. Then, although for the last three hours he had been fighting locusts, squashing locusts, yelling at locusts, and sweeping them in great mounds into the fires to burn, he nevertheless took this one to the door and carefully threw it out to join its fellows, as if he would rather not harm a hair of its head. There were seven patches of bared, cultivated soil, where the new mealies were just showing, making a film of bright green over the rich dark red, and around each patch now drifted up thick clouds of smoke. When the government warnings came, piles of wood and grass had been prepared in every cultivated field. "Those beggars can eat every leaf and blade off the farm in half an hour! But Richard and the old man had raised their eyes and were looking up over the nearest mountaintop. She remembered it was not the first time in the past three years the men had announced their final and irremediable ruin. Margaret heard him and she ran out to join them, looking at the hills. It was a half night, a perverted blackness. Then came a sharp crack from the bush—a branch had snapped off. In the meantime, he told her about how, twenty years back, he had been eaten out, made bankrupt by the locust armies. He looked at her disapprovingly.
This swarm may pass over, but once they've started, they'll be coming down from the north one after another. Then up came old Stephen from the lands. Their farm was three thousand acres on the ridges that rise up toward the Zambezi escarpment—high, dry, wind-swept country, cold and dusty in winter, but now, in the wet months, steamy with the heat that rose in wet, soft waves off miles of green foliage. He picked a stray locust off his shirt and split it down with his thumbnail; it was clotted inside with eggs.
The men were her husband, Richard, and old Stephen, Richard's father, who was a farmer from way back, and these two might argue for hours over whether the rains were ruinous or just ordinarily exasperating. Outside, the light on the earth was now a pale, thin yellow darkened with moving shadow; the clouds of moving insects alternately thickened and lightened, like driving rain. She still did not understand why they did not go bankrupt altogether, when the men never had a good word for the weather, or the soil, or the government. Up came old Stephen again—crunching locusts underfoot with every step, locusts clinging all over him—cursing and swearing, banging with his old hat at the air.
But at this she took a quick look at Stephen, the old man who had farmed forty years in this country and been bankrupt twice before, and she knew nothing would make him go and become a clerk in the city.
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