[It is Sunday; there is no work in the field. I let my two workers go to town for some rally or parade. Suddenly a group of soldiers on horseback appeared at one side of the field. One of them rode up and turned to me with a distinctly mocking voice: "Tell me, where can I find the 'lo-o-ord of the manor'?"]
I stuck the pitchfork into the ground, mopped the sweat from my face, and calmly answered: "I am the landlord."
["You have a haystack over there. We're going to take it for the mounted artillery". "That's just forest hay; it's not very good. I have some field hay three kilometres away which would be better."]