Margaret sat down helplessly and thought, Well, if it's the end, it's the end. Their crop was maize. The sky made her eyes ache; she was not used to it. Over the rocky levels of the mountain was a streak of rust-colored air. "How can you bear to let them touch you? " From down on the lands came the beating and banging and clanging of a hundred petrol tins and bits of metal.
And then: "There goes our crop for this season! Her heart ached for him; he looked so tired, the worry lines deep from nose to mouth. And then there are the hoppers. "Imagine that multiplied by millions. "We're finished, Margaret, finished! " Old Stephen yelled at the houseboy.
They all stood and gazed. It was like the darkness of a veldt fire, when the air gets thick with smoke and the sunlight comes down distorted—a thick, hot orange. "You've got the strength of a steel spring in those legs of yours, " he told the locust good-humoredly. He picked a stray locust off his shirt and split it down with his thumbnail; it was clotted inside with eggs. If we can make enough smoke, make enough noise till the sun goes down, they'll settle somewhere else, perhaps. " Now she was a proper farmer's wife, in sensible shoes and a solid skirt. Here were the first of them. 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. But it's only early afternoon. If they get a chance to lay their eggs, we are going to have everything eaten flat with hoppers later on. Activity where cursing is expected crossword answers. " But the gongs were still beating, the men still shouting, and Margaret asked, "Why do you go on with it, then? 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. Stephen impatiently waited while Margaret filled one petrol tin with tea—hot, sweet, and orange-colored—and another with water. Then came a sharp crack from the bush—a branch had snapped off.
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. 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 she looked out, all the trees were queer and still, clotted with insects, their boughs weighted to the ground. It sounded like a heavy storm. This comforted Margaret; all at once, she felt irrationally cheered. Soon they had all come up to the house, and Richard and old Stephen were giving them orders: Hurry, hurry, hurry. The cookboy ran to beat the rusty plowshare, banging from a tree branch, that was used to summon the laborers at moments of crisis. In the meantime, he told her about how, twenty years back, he had been eaten out, made bankrupt by the locust armies. It was oppressive, too, with the heaviness of a storm. What does cursing mean. And then: "Get the kettle going. Insects, swarms of them—horrible! Out came the servants from the kitchen. But she was getting to learn the language. 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.
And then, still talking, he lifted the heavy petrol cans, one in each hand, holding them by the wooden pieces set cornerwise across the tops, and jogged off down to the road to the thirsty laborers. By now, the locusts were falling like hail on the roof of the kitchen. The telephone was ringing—neighbors to say, Quick, quick, here come the locusts! More tea, more water were needed. 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.
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