Lazūnų tarmės tekstai

LIETUVIŲ KALBOTYROS KLAUSIMAI, II LIETUVOS TSR MOKSLŲ AKADEMIJA LAZŪNAI1 DIALECT TEXTS J. SENKUS For the main features of the dialect, see the article “Some Features of the Lazūnai Dialect” (Proceedings of the Academy of Sciences of the Lithuanian SSR, Series A, 1, 183–194, 1958). It is intended that additional and more extensive information, or explanations of individual points, will be provided later. In addition, it is hoped that more texts recorded in 1958 will later be prepared for publication. The texts presented here were recorded in 1952–1955 from the following speakers of the dialect (Jūrotiškės District, Byelorussian SSR): Viktorija Audzevičiūtė, born 1892, Dervagiai (Dievergiai, Gervagiai) village; Juzepa Buika, born 1872, Lazūnai village; Antanina Jarmalavičienė, born 1856, Lazūnai village; Jonas Kemeišis, born 1912, Ūosiagiriai village; Marija Maceikienė, born 1870, Joskūnai (Jaskūnai, Jaskevičiai) village; Juzikas Labočius, born 1884, Vāld(z)ikai village; Marija Varnelienė, born 1889, Pasaliai (Pāsalis) village; and Jonas Varnelis (Varnelė, Varaniukas), born 1902, Pasaliai village. The texts were recorded by A. Laigonaitė, J. Paulauskas, and the author of these lines. The latter had the task of preparing them for publication, removing certain inconsistencies and obscurities... Some inconsistencies had to be retained, especially where they are characteristic of the dialect itself. A glossary of rarer words and Slavic loanwords has also been included. In the phonetic transcription used in the texts presented here, only some of the most essential signs differing from the orthography of the literary language have been employed, for example: b̥, t̥, l̥, ȧ; ė (long, unaccented). The texts are intended primarily to illustrate the dialect’s morphology, syntax, and lexicon. In certain respects they are also important for the dialect’s phonetics. Moreover, these texts are significant in some other respects as well, for example folkloric, historical, and ethnographic. As is evident from these texts and the article mentioned, the dialect of Lazūnai and neighboring villages belongs to the Dzūkian punininkai dialect. Both of its phonetic features are quite pronounced, although, of course, regular and irregular exceptions occur. The speech phonetics of some dialect speakers are more distorted and corrupted, those of others less so; nevertheless, all their speech shows a very marked influence of Belarusian and Polish. It 1 Local people pronounce it Lazūnai, Lazūnus (Lazūnān, Lazūnus). Some think that in standard Lithuanian it should be written Lazūnai (cf. the pronunciation laza instead of standard Lithuanian lazda), but until the etymology of this place name has been definitively clarified, it is written here as Lazūnai. Cf. the article mentioned above and P. Arumaa, Litauische mundartliche Texte aus der Wilnaer Gegend, Dorpat, 1930. 215 This is also clearly evident in the lexicon. For the history of the Lithuanian language and dialectology, the dialect’s morphology provides the most valuable material—in particular, the surviving forms of the four locative cases and the imperative mood are noteworthy. Some of these are also significant for comparative linguistics. Of the texts presented here, perhaps the most valuable are those recorded from speakers of the dialect in the villages of Pasaliai and Dervagiai: these villages, of all those mentioned above, are probably the most Lithuanian, although even here only the older people know or speak Lithuanian better. The terms “Lazūnai dialect” and “texts of the Lazūnai dialect” are used here by tradition. In the aforementioned villages, whose residents supplied the texts presented here, the language people use in everyday life and officially is Belarusian. In addition, many inhabitants of those villages know Polish or Russian, but a considerable proportion of them consider themselves Lithuanians, while some consider themselves Poles. Almost all of them are native to the area. It is worth noting that some local residents who do not know Lithuanian call it the Žagūnai or Žagūnska language, apparently thereby ridiculing and disparaging it. As already mentioned, the texts presented here contain quite a few inconsistencies, especially phonetic ones. These arose mainly because: 1) the speech of the dialect speakers themselves and of the informants is characterized by such variation (often the same person pronounces the same thing differently); 2) the texts were recorded by more than one person (recorder), and it is well known that differences always arise in such cases. The same is partly true of the texts recorded on tape. In preparing the texts for publication, efforts were made to even out only the most significant and clearest inconsistencies, for example the hardening of certain consonants; even this, however, was done cautiously, usually only after consulting dialect speakers from those areas who now live in Vilnius, such as J. Maceika from Lazūnai village and J. Petrauskas from Daunoriai (Dauroniai) village. * * * There were three brothers: two were clever, the third was a fool. The fool took a rake and went off; he dug in the fields and dug and found a whole wagonload of coins. He came home and boasted to his clever brothers: “Look, I found a whole wagonload of coins.” The brothers said: “As soon as it gets dark, we’ll go.” They harnessed a horse and set off to the priest’s, and left him standing in the gateway, while they drove off to the field. They told him: “When the priest comes, give him a whack.” The priest sometimes walks through the gateway. When the priest came through the gateway, the fool struck him on the head with the rake. The priest fell asleep. The fool went to his clever brothers in the field and said: “I gave the priest a whack.” They then said: “What have you done?” He brought the money home. They dug a pit in the yard and buried the priest. Mother looked for him for one day and then another. The priest was nowhere to be found. Then mother gathered her neighbors and served them food and drink in honor of the priest. The clever ones sat at the table, drinking and eating. The fool, sitting on the stove, said: “When there’s food and drink, there’s someone to share it with; but when it came to giving a whack, there was no one.” Mother listened to what the fool was saying. The fool asked: “And where is the priest?” The fool said: “He’s buried in the yard.” The clever ones got up from the table straight away, quickly dug up the priest, slaughtered a goat, and buried him in that same spot. Then they took the fool and led him to that yard— 216 …there, where the little bottle had been buried. The fool took a shovel and began digging up the little bottle. He digs—it is a further dig. He dug up to the horns. He asks: “Do you, little bottle, have horns?” They say: “Dig, keep digging.” He dug up to the hooves. So he asks: “Do you, little bottle, have hooves?” They say: “Dig!” He digs. He dug up to the beard. “So our little bottle has a beard?” He pulled that goat out of the hole by its horns and threw it at his feet. Then they said: “As you were a fool, so you will remain.” * * * There was an old man, and his wife died. He took a young wife. But the young woman had not married the old man for his age, but for his wealth. Well, then she was always sick. The old man asks her: “What is the matter with you, what are you lying there for?” She says to him: “I can’t get well at all. But a neighbor came and told me that you should walk twelve kilometers and buy a jug of honey. But you need to wrap yourself in furs, cover your mouth and face, and put on a hat, and walk twelve kilometers.” And it was a hot summer day. So the old man got ready and went. He brought back some bread with honey. He asks: “What are you doing?” She took some and tasted it. Then she says: “There’ll be no remedy—you mustn’t taste the herbs.” She ate the bread with honey. And she was still sick all the time. The old man says: “So you’re sick all the time.” She says: “A neighbor came and told me that you should put on a hat, wrap yourself in furs and cover your mouth, and go ask the neighbor to lend you a dog, so that it would get fat.” So he drove that dog around the fields; the dog got tired and came home. As soon as he kicked it, threw it onto the sled, and started beating it, the dog got fat. He brings it in and asks what he should do with it. She says: “Gypsies need to be treated, too.” So he stood it up and began treating it. He treats it—it is ready now. Then he says: “Have a taste!” She said: “You mustn’t taste the coffin, you said.” Then the old man sighed deeply, let his belt out a notch, and loosened his trousers; and so he is still well today. Recorded by J. Senkus from J. Labočius in 1952. There was an old woman and she had three grandchildren. The grandfather did not want the children to grow up. He took a little sled and sat the children in it. It was very cold, and there was a lot of snow. The wind was blowing. And the sled was carrying the children along. He would bury them and freeze them. A wolf comes. “Stop, grandfather! Where are you taking the children?” “My old woman doesn’t want them, so I’ll eat them.” The wolf struck the grandfather on the head with its paw, and the grandfather fell over. And the wolf killed the grandfather. It sat the children on its paw and said: “Let’s go. Where is your home?” The children said that their home was over there. The wolf pulled the sled; the children sat in it. It brought them home. It asks the old woman: “Whose children are these?” “Ours.” “And where is their mother?” “Their mother died: they’re orphans—there is neither mother nor father.” The wolf said to the old woman: “Whatever you give the children to eat, I’ll come and eat you, too.” She said: “I’ll raise them.” Then the wolf sat down. The old woman brought it bacon and dumplings. The wolf put them on its paw and gave them to drink. It drank the dumpling broth, ate the bacon, and then said to the old woman: “Here, raise them, but I’ll eat you.” Then the wolf left the old woman. The children remained. Two days passed, and the wolf came to check on them. The old woman raised the girls and married them off to young men. I was at the wedding, too; I drank wine and honey, but there was no food. 15. Kalbotyros klausimai II. 217 There was a man who had one son. The son was a burden to his father. He did not want the son to be out in the world. A Jew came to the window and asked: “What will you sell me?” The son said: “I have some pillows.” The Jew came to buy them and asked: “Where are your pillows?” The son said: “On the oven.” The Jew asked: “What will you take for the pillows?” The son said: “Whatever you give me is fine; if you give me a hundred, I’ll sell them.” The shrewd Jew took out two hundred and gave it to him, while the father was lying on the oven. The Jew put his coat on, harnessed up, and led the father to the wagon, sat him down, and took him home. The old man said to the Jew: “Let’s go to Jujon.” They arrived in Ivjon, went in, and the Jew had all his fields and farms registered—and everything else he owned. The Jew came home and set out to drive the son from the house. The son looks around—there he is, being driven out of the house! He goes to work: “What have you done?” “I did this, but you sold me.” He begged to kiss his father’s hands, hoping to get a little something. The Jew said there was no need—and did not take the father back. There was a cat and a hare. The two of them went to a wedding. The musicians asked the hare to dance, while the cat stood there going “purr, purr, purr.” It was purring. The hare ran up to the cat: “What shall we dance?” The cat said: “Whatever you like.” “Let’s dance the English dance.” The hare went to dance with the cat. The hare was nimble, but the cat was not so nimble. The cat struck the hare on the head with its paw. The hare fell over and lay on the ground, stretched out. Well, the hare was already dying. The cat went to work. The hare got up and ran away. “If you beat me,” it said, “then you dance alone.” There was a girl who had a child. They were debauched. He kept telling her: “I’ll marry you.” After that he took some herbs and rubbed them on the girl. He got himself engaged to her father. “Father, dig me up, because he buried me without a coffin.” He dug her up, and she was alive. She kept saying that the world would be very big, but full of fools. “It won’t be good in this world, because this world is foolish, and the one where I was laid will rise by itself.” He came home and lay down to sleep. And he never got up again. She said to her father: “Look, he won’t get up, because he was dishonorable, while I am an honorable, virtuous girl.” He lay there for three years, and in the fourth year he got up with a bang. The girl went out into the world. And as soon as that girl got up, things went badly, and many people were laid to rest. There was an old woman. She set a hen and hatched little chicks. She sat down beside a little stone and said: “What are we going to do, how shall I raise you? I have neither grain nor straw nor bread, only water.” The little chicks answered her: “Look, dear mother, don’t worry: I’ll feed them all and raise them all; I have everything—bread and grain, but no water.” Another little chick answered: “Look, we won’t drink water; we’ll drink milk. We have a little cow; we’ll let her graze, and I’ll raise you all.” The little chicks grew and grew, and when they began laying eggs, they laid them by the old woman, piled them up, added more, and… Such a wealthy old woman she became… 218 The little chickens—she didn’t know where to put her belongings. She stuffed her pockets full of groschen, but when night came, all those coins disappeared. When the old woman began to complain, she took it to heart and went mad. She was mad for two years, and in the third year the old woman died. Those little chickens went off to wander the world. Whoever caught some had them, and whoever didn’t catch any had none. If you had only seen it, you would have been amazed. The neighbors sat together, one with another. One said: “May God give you two children.” And God did give them. Then she said: “As long as I live, I will never forget it.” There was a wedding, and the guests sat down at the table. And there was a sorcerer there. They didn’t give him any vodka. He said: “As you sit there, so shall you fly up alive.” He went to the door and stood there. And he turned everyone into birds—girls and boys alike. And they all flew into the trees, while the bride hid in the cellar, with flowers and a wreath. The bride’s father and mother began to cry—what would happen now? They sat the sorcerer down and began to treat him. The other girls and boys did not return, and he said: “Come out of the cellar!” She came out, but the wedding was over. One man was a wolf for nine years. In the ninth year he came home and crawled through the fence. And then his belt tore, and he became a man. All his fur fell off, only one tail remained. He was small for several years and died with his tail. Grind, grind, little millet; mother cooked porridge in a tiny pot—a delicious little porridge in a tiny pot. She gave some to this one, gave some to that one, gave none to this one. Here’s a little hill, here’s a little treasure, delicious water. Recorded by A. Laigonaitė and J. Senkus in 1952, from A. Jarmalavičienė. Little May, little bird, don’t sit in the oak tree—the hawk will swoop down on you2, scatter your feathers, and frighten the little children. I’ll go for a walk, I’ll go strolling: now it’s my turn, now I’m free—at my own mother’s, at my own father’s. Dear little sisters, little neighbors, don’t look through the little window—look through the little crack: how beautiful my friend is, like a poppy in the garden, like a rose in the orchard. 2 your < yours < you 219 * * * — The cuckoo, the cuckoo, the little moon is rising. Why are you, young girl, dancing so high? — Why shouldn’t I dance, why shouldn’t I sing—my mother-in-law-to-be intends to give me a bridegroom. Recorded by A. Laigonaitė and J. Senkus in 1952 from M. Maceikienė. He keeps going and going from one village to another, and as he goes Asilkas proclaims everywhere: “People themselves are their own masters. Look, God gives everything to people, and they are well provided for.” And he had this sort of saying: “Eat bread and give it to people; eat bread, but don’t exploit people.” Asilkas began teaching people how to live together and how everyone could be well. And he went on this road throughout the world. The lords took fright and sent people to hunt down that Asilkas. They searched for him for a long time but could not find him at all. Now these seven brothers wanted to become lords. They agreed on how to betray him, and the lords found those robbers and called them their brothers. They bowed and gave them estates, lots of money, and all kinds of good things. The robbers agreed to betray the people, so that they would hand over that Asilkas. The lords gathered the Russians and attacked Asilkas. Asilkas knew nothing and was lying asleep. Then the Russians attacked him. They tied his hands with ropes and chains and led him to the lord. Many people gathered, feeling sorry for Asilkas, but there was nothing they could do for him. The Russians led Asilkas to the estate, and the people followed them. They bared their heads, while the women wailed, scolded, and fought with stones and sticks. The lords immediately gathered there, strutting about and holding their heads high like wolves. Look, they had caught Asilkas; they laughed, shouted, rubbed their hands, and thought up what punishment to give him. One says: “Skin him alive,” and another says: “Hang him by the tongue, so the whole world will know.” While they were still deliberating and devising a punishment, Asilkas took heart, pulled at his bonds, and told the people to seize the devilish lords, so that the people would have no more troubles. Asilkas said that and disappeared—only a little ball of dust flew from that place to the ground. The lords were frightened and trembled, while Asilkas, they say, went on celebrating among the people. Recorded by J. Senkus in 1952 from J. Buika3. He walks through the woods, carries things home, and sticks them into a corner (riddle: he walks through the woods, carries things home, and sticks them into a corner). It sweeps, it tosses, it stands in a corner (a broom). In the middle of the yard, a gut is at war (a syringe). A yard full of sheep, one baron bleats (there are lots of people in the church, and one priest is singing). A corner’s clothes, like horns—don’t tell (under a hen’s breast). In the middle of the yard, the stars are at war (the stars are at war when there’s frost). 3 The text is important for comparison: the same, but fuller text from her narration was recorded by P. Arumaa; see P. Arumaa, Litauische mundartliche Texte aus der Wilnaer Gegend, 38-40, Dorpat, 1930. 220 A potato in the room, and its hair is orange (a carrot). Miss little-red, pretty little-red, rosy little-red; when you look at her, tears fall, and you feel like crying (an onion). A little lord with twenty captains runs around (a cabbage). I can swear that there are a thousand here (a poppy). Four sticks, two heels, a hundred thousand samachodas (a cow). Beyond the fence—tralialia (a tongue). One says, “May God enlighten us,” another says, “May God not grant it,” the third says, “When day and night meet—poke out an eye.” “Little-red, little-mask—covers all the world (a needle). Everyone by the pit with potatoes (with spoons beside the bowl). One tree blooms in winter and summer (a spruce). A little hump (a stove). Recorded in 1952 by A. Laigonaite and J. Paulauskas from M. Varnelienė. Go on, my life, go on, my dearest, oh, it is hard to be, oh, it is hard to live in the world; farther on, perhaps, we will no longer see each other, perhaps, soon there will be none of us. There is neither a little brother nor a little sister: there is no one to turn to, no one to gather close except one’s own kin. If I had relatives, I would talk with them, I would confide in them: I would tell them of my troubles. My days have passed, my young years have passed. I had no health; I was never well, and, it seems, I will never recover. Thus I do not long for my young days, but when my mother comes and takes me to her, for I am sad. And you, my little son, oh, my dear little one, I wanted to raise you so that you would herd my cows, and when you grew bigger, you would earn bread for me, feed your old mother, listen to me, and I would have joy in you. My little daughter, when you grow up, you will spin flax, weave on the loom, wind the skeins, and I will prepare you for a bridegroom. We will plant potatoes, then dig them up, then hoe them, and go to the market; then we will eat. We will soak flax, then spread it out, then spin it, then weave it, then bleach it; then we will sew shirts, trousers for the boys, and little dresses and shirts for the girls, and dress them up as brides and grooms. They will herd the cows, give milk, and there will be something to give to the godparents and to us. Such is our way of life, such is our existence. I am a little mite myself, my sons are little tots. And I sat by the spindle, laid out colored threads. I gave those threads to my aunt, and my aunt gave me a little ball of yarn. I threw that little ball into the river, 221 the river gave me little fish. I speared those little fish; the spearman got drunk and pissed himself, and saw three kings—little pissers, little shitters. * * * I am already setting out to get married, to my own mother’s home. I do not want to be led by a stranger’s mother, but I want to be led by my own father. I will stand on new legs and in new shoes. A stranger has taken me in, and now I must obey my husband. * * * Oh, the boys are so sly: they quickly flirt with the girls, then take them and forget them. They hurry through the young days; I was never dishonorable then, nor did I cling to anyone: neither the boys nor the girls accepted me, and there was no company. They toss it in their hands, drop it from their hands, and shorten a person’s life. * * * — Doũ, doũ, doũ — where are you going? — To mow the grass, to cut hay. — And what will you do with that hay? — I’ll feed the cows, nourish and raise the children, so they grow up and look after me when I’m old. * * * The rye grows, then it is weeded, then it is hoed, and then it is finally finished. Then we reap, then carry the sheaves, then thresh, fill the sacks, then grind and bake bread. Recorded by A. Laigonaitė and J. Paulauskas in 1952, from V. Audzevičiūtė. In spring he needed ploughs and harrows; he repaired the carts, took them to the smithy, and had them fitted out. Then he worked—he cleared the stumps and pulled them out; that was called grubbing. Then he went out to the field, burned the brush, crossed himself (made the sign of the cross) first, looked over the horses, and asked God that God grant him good work, that God grant him a good harvest. Then when the time for manure-spreading came, he looked over the carts and got them ready with barrels, and took them to the field. Then he planted potatoes, barley, and wheat. Then haymaking came; he needed scythes. If there were no scythes, he went to Ju(v)jōn and bought one. He went to the smithy, fitted a scythe blade to the handle, made a snath, and sharpened the scythe; he took a little basket and went to the meadow to mow hay. Then, after staying for two or three days, he needed rakes; he looked over the carts, hitched up the horses, and went to the meadow, got ready, sharpened the blades, raked, tossed the hay into piles, and made piles. Then Saint Anne’s feast arrived. He readied the barrels and sickles, took them to the smithy, had them hammered out or took them to have new sickles made. Then he prepared those sickles well, so there would be no delays. When he went to reap, he took a scythe, and in a day he cut about three, two, or two and a half [units], however much there was. Then he set the sheaves in stooks and, when they were dry, hauled them into the barn. Then, when autumn came, he needed flails; he fitted the little joints that go with the flails, dried them 222 and threshing. Or, when you go to the mill, Juõn brings the grain, grinds it at the mill, and threshes with the mill. But most people do not thresh with the mill, but with flails. People, they say, were already very poor in our lifetime; there was little land for them, so most threshed everything by hand. Since many years have passed since the time when the Swedes were here, I don't remember well who they were or where they came from. I heard what old people used to tell. There were such Swedes. They walked around the villages, and people came back. They did not come back from anything, but they also cut off bits of the women's breasts. Then the devil took revenge on them for that. He gave them a kind of madness, and from then on they began to go mad. Then they began to sit on horses. Their heads did not turn toward the horses, but their backsides did, and they would sit astride two or three horses at once. Then they began to disappear, and all of them vanished. And afterwards, somewhere beyond Slabada, there were their burial mounds, where they had been gathered together, and there was a treasure buried there. Some people went and started digging them up. And they were told: “Do not disturb those mounds—it is forbidden: wherever you did not put it, don't disturb it.” And nobody disturbed anything. So many years have passed since then, as old people once used to tell it all. When Christmas is near, and at Christmas the whole family gathers together for Kūčios. They bring a little bundle of hay from the barn, put it on the table and spread the hay over the table, cover it with a cloth, and then put the communion wafers on the table. Mother or father then breaks the wafers and gives everyone a piece, to the whole family, everyone who is in the house, and they say that God may let them all live to see another Christmas, that they may all be well and alive, and that everything may go well. Then they bring and put bread on the table, wheat bread, mushrooms, and herring. Sometimes there is no herring, and they manage without it. A dish made from barley groats is called pancuokas. Then they put all this on the table, set it out, and eat. They eat it all clean. They have already put the poppy-seed milk out in the pantry. Everyone says prayers and asks God that He give everyone health and all kinds of good things, for themselves and for the livestock. Then they take up the hay. Not everyone, but most people do this with the hay. They make one piece shorter, but make them all equal, and then whoever happens to pick up the short one, they say that person, whether a man or a woman, will die. That's just how it was in my story. There was a priest in Lazūnai, Petkėvičius, a cripple—I can't say for sure now, a cripple, Petkėvičius. He was thirty-six years old and died. Then, as they were drawing the hay, he pulled out the shorter end. He said to everyone: “I will soon die now—you'll remember my words.” He lived for a month and died. They took him to Valdzikai—they took him to the hospital. He stayed there and came home, lay down to rest. He said that as he was recovering from that fever (the fever was very bad, I don't know), a louse crawled out of his bedding, from there where he was sitting, and bit him, and he was very frightened. Then, from the fright, he had a stroke, and died. That's how it was. 223 When evening comes, the girls take one stick while another stands and listens to the side, with a stick in her hand, as many times as she has not yet counted. If she takes the small stick (?), then she will go after a young man, but if she takes the crooked stick, then she will go after an old man. That's how it is. Then they sit on this same poker and ride it—straddling the poker between their legs. They ride to where a pig has been singed, and put the poker on the ground there and listen: in which direction the dogs bark, that's where, they say, we'll go after a bridegroom. There was a girl at a certain woman's house. She went to a party, and the young men began to dance with her. But she wasn't dancing very well. The young men asked her: “Why are you dancing so badly?” She said: “I'm not feeling well—I'm feeling quite unwell.” “What's wrong with you?” Pakauskas asked. “I don't know myself. Somehow,” she said, “I'm feeling unwell.” “Well, why don't you go to the doctor?” “No,” she said, “I ought to go to the doctor.” She went to the doctor and spoke to him: “I,” she said, “have a fever.” “What is wrong with you?” he asked. “I don't know myself,” she said. “I went to a party,” she said, “and the young men danced with me there, and now,” she said, “I feel sick all over, I don't feel well.” Once my grandfather was at a wedding, and they had gone to the wedding feast. When they gathered for the wedding procession, they brought the bride from another farmstead, put a veil on her, and placed a wreath on her head. They fastened the wreath to her head and led her in. Two young men led her, one taking her under the arm on one side and the other taking her under the arm on the other; they led her into the house. The musicians followed, playing, and she began to curtsy. She curtsied around the table and began to cry. The groom stood in the house and looked on from the side. Then my grandfather said: “Why aren't you curtsying? You too, kneel on one knee and then start crying.” Not knowing anything, she knelt on one knee. And he said: “You don't know why she is crying. She is crying from joy.” In olden days, people used to tell how there were no plows, only wooden ard-plows, and they plowed with ards. They would go to the forest, cut down a birch or an oak, and look for one that was crooked. Then they would shape it and dry it—and that was called a ragočius. They would hammer two little horns onto it with iron fittings and make it into a yoke for a calf, putting it around its neck. Nowadays, when a horse is plowing, it is steered with reins, but a calf had none. They would simply unhook the yoke. When they got to the end of the field, they would turn back over the furrow; the calf itself would turn. The furrow came out straight at the end. There was one calf that was red, and another piebald. And they would say, “Zavernis!” to the one on the left or the one on the right. The calf knew. Sometimes one would say “to the right,” and the other “to the left”; they would turn around and go, without needing anything. They were harnessed that way. And one day, when they went out to plow, they plowed up a good-sized piece of land. So old people say, they plowed up a lot with calves, just as with horses. That's how it was. 224 They pull up the flax, strip off the seeds, winnow it, take the heads and dry them in a tub, while the stems—they had built large drying racks about three meters high—are spread over those racks and dry. Sometimes, when it rains, they have also arranged a place under the barn. Then they gather up the flax and soak it so it will be better for the cloth and less bleaching will be needed. They dry flax in a drying barn. Then they heat the drying barn and fill it; there may be five or four bundles, or, if the drying barn is larger, six. In one day, they may dry some fifteen bundles; sometimes they dry twenty bundles if the drying barn is bigger. They spin flax around Christmas. From Christmas until New Year, they do hardly any work. People used to say it this way. They weave the threads. They set the looms upright in the house; then they work on them, smoothing them out and weaving them, until they are as even as a bed, and the loom stands there until you go outside. They take the linen cloth in spring, in May, when it is warm and the days are long, when there is dew. Then they take the woven cloth, fold it together, soak it, and take all the clothes and the linen cloths, and pour lye over the linen cloths, dampen them with ash, and leave them for two or three days. The linen cloths soak up the lye, then they spread them out when there is spring dew, when it is warm, the days are long and sunny; then they beat them and leave them in the dew. They stay in the sun for two or three days, sometimes three, then they take them to the river, soak them, and do it again. They keep doing this for a whole week—two weeks—and bleach them. If it takes two weeks, or two and a half, they bleach them nicely, like paper; but if the fabric is coarse, then they have to leave it for three weeks, or even more. There were fairs, and the biggest ones took place on all the feast days. First came Marčynas, then New Year, then rabnūčos, then after rabnūčos came Šāščines, Devincines, and Pētras. Horses were cheaper at Marčynas and these feast days. Old people used to say that they would go to Jujōn and say, “I bought a little mare; I brought her for a bushel of pears.” Once she had spent the winter there, she was called a perežimkas. My father went to Jujōn. He carried flax to sell at night. Then a very big storm came, and there was a rumbling of thunder. Thunder crashed and lightning flashed. People would come riding up to acquaintances. He rode up to their house and listened, knocking on the window. “Alės, Alės, open the door, let me in!” “Who is it—is that you, Stāška?” “It's me.” “You know, Stāška,” she said, “I can't find a thing now.” “Why have you got so frightened,” he said, “what are you—a little child or what?” She said: “I'm not a little child—nothing like that, but,” she said, “I'm terribly afraid. The women aren't at home, only I am here by myself, so,” she said, “I'm shaking all over like an aspen, and I can't find anything anywhere. I ought to,” she said, “light a fire, but,” she said, “I'm afraid and can't find the matches anywhere.” He said: “What kind of person are you then—” 225 “A noble person.” Well, then he says: “There are plows,” he says, “behind the carts and wagons, but,” he says, “I was very taken with them.” There used to be a man named Antōsius and Džidorius. They both knew all sorts of stories very well. When they got together and began telling these stories, they would sit up all night and never want to do anything else. They both knew them very well. There was an old man. That is how they used to speak Lithuanian. Among ourselves, we all spoke only Lithuanian. So, whether someone went out to chat, or to do some work, or went somewhere, to the smithy, or to the mill, or to the threshing barn, whenever everyone gathered, we would all speak Lithuanian, you know. There was a mill in Lazūnai. It worked by water; everything was done there. I think it has already been about fifteen years, maybe more, since the old man died. Well, back then, I would say, people did not think about it, because people nowadays don’t have much to think about, but back then we knew all kinds of songs and could tell stories. Well, as time went by, things changed. Nowadays people speak well; my brothers themselves spoke well, she spoke Lithuanian very well, but these young people don’t speak it at all. The old people still speak it well. Nowadays, when we go to Valdzikai, all the old people there speak Lithuanian. There are some in Titkūnai, in Lazūnai, in Udgudionys, and nowadays in Itrēnai too—all those villages. But in Bōkštas there is no Lithuanian anymore; everyone speaks Russian there. When all the old people gather, they talk, and the older ones speak Lithuanian. When autumn comes, they get the firewood ready. When the snow starts falling around Christmas, then you get the horses ready, the harness, the little saddles, everything. Well, they get a lot of firewood ready, cut it up, split it, prepare it for the whole year. Our fields are poor. There are so many stones—you hardly see any good soil around here; there is no water. They say that when the land is not fertile, barley and oats grow better, but rye doesn’t do well. Rye, you know, grows very tall stalks, but there is no grain on them, and when you thresh it, you get hardly any grain. When the years are wetter, nothing grows. People go to Vilnius on the ninth and, you see, on the sixth; they go to Vilnius. Some go to Kalvarija by horse-drawn cart. When their legs get tired, they pay a little extra, perhaps, and get a ride on a wagon; they load up their bundles, and off they go. They leave for three days and return home after three, four, or even five. 226 *** Father was very ill, and we had little land. And there were six of us children, so, you might say, we had little bread and lived poorly, though things were not all that good anyway. Father was ill, and they had arranged for him to go to Vilnius for treatment. Recorded on tape in 1954 from J. Kemešis. In 1958, J. Senkus and A. Vidugiris transcribed it from the recording, shortening it somewhat and omitting unclear passages. A poor woodcutter came to a poor man’s house to spend the night. He stayed there. A child was born to him during the night. He lay on a bench by the window. He listened. Two women were talking under the window about what fate to give this child. One says: “This gentleman’s good fortune.” The gentleman listens: “Such a poor man—and such good fortune.” He got up in the morning. “Show me this child.” He went to see the child. “Sell him to me; I’ll buy the child.” Well, they were poor. The gentleman gave him a lot of money, and they sold him the child. He took the child and carried him away with him. He took him into the woods and hung him under a birch tree in a cradle, and in winter, when it was bitterly cold, he wanted the child to freeze. A priest was traveling from the mill. He hears—the child is moving. He says to the coachman: “Stop, look what’s going on there.” The coachman looked and saw the child rocking in the cradle, with the birch branches bent over him; he was warm, and he was moving. The priest said: “Let’s put him in the wagon.” They took the child with them. The priest taught him to be an organist. He was twelve or seventeen years old. This gentleman came to the priest who had taken in the child, and the organist sang beautifully. The gentleman asks: “Where did you get such an organist?” The priest says: “I found him in the woods.” Then the gentleman’s heart ached—this would be his fate. The gentleman went to the priest, and they made a deal. “Sell him, give me this organist; I have a daughter, I’ll marry them, I’ll wed the two of them.” Then the priest said to the organist: “Go to that gentleman.” The gentleman wrote him a letter, telling him not to show anyone what he had written on the way. He wrote that when he came to the house, his head should be cut off and his throat slit. He went on his way and met an old man. “Where are you going?” “I’m going to the gentleman.” “Show me the letter.” “Grandfather, I can’t.” “I’ll just hold it in my hand.” The old man looked at the letter and changed it. He changed it so that when he came to the house, he was to be married at once. When the young man arrived, he gave the letter to the gentleman’s wife. The wife read the letter and arranged his marriage to her daughter. The gentleman came back: “Show me the letter.” They brought him the letter. He took it in his hands and read it. Well, the poor woodcutter became the gentleman’s son-in-law. That gentleman had two apple trees. They bloomed in winter and summer. One bloomed white, the other red. The gentleman thought to himself: “Go on, travel, go to such-and-such a sorcerer and ask what should be done to these apple trees, why they bloom.” His son-in-law got ready to travel and set off. He kept going and going. A man was standing on a bridge. He asks: “Where are you going?” “I’m going to the sorcerer.” The man standing on the bridge says: “Ask him for me whether I’ll be standing here for long.” He went farther. He arrived at a manor. “Where are you going?” they asked him. “I’m going to the sorcerer.” “Ask him about our girl.” 227 The girl disappeared—she went out onto the porch and disappeared from the porch. Ask about them. He goes on and on. He came to the manor again. There is no water at that manor. “Where are you going?” He answers: “I’m going to the sorcerers.” “Ask about us; there is no water at our manor.” He goes farther on again. In the woods, a man stands on a stump on one leg, shouting. “Where are you going, brother?” “I’m going to the sorcerers.” “Ask about me, how long I’ll be shouting on this stump.” He went on to where he had to go. He came to the house: there was nothing there, only one girl, and the others were gone—scattered. And the girl who had disappeared from the porch said to him: “Where have you been? Here you’ll be beaten to death.” He began telling her what had happened to him on the road. He told everything clearly, what had happened to him on the road. She took him, turned him upside down under the bed, beneath the boards, and waited for the sorcerer to come. The sorcerer came at night, and the girl lay down. “Oh, I had so many dreams.” “And what,” he says, “did you dream?” The one beneath the boards listened. She tells her dream: “I keep going and going. A man stands on a bridge day and night, because he is foolish. He throws his clothes off himself onto another, then goes away, and another would take his place. The girl disappeared, so that she might gather all the manor’s keys, circle the manor three times, and then the girl would appear on the porch.” Then the girl asks him: “There’s no water at the manor.” “Foolish girl—a white mare is at that manor: mount it, circle around six times, and there’ll be water. And a man stands on a stump on one leg, shouting. Just say, ‘Be my friend,’ and that’s all.” And she listened to the other one. “One apple tree blossoms white, and another red.” The sorcerer said: “Beneath the white one is silver, and beneath the red one, gold. You have to dig it up and take it.” They got up early and went home. The girl went away with him and asked him not to forget them. He went into the woods, where the man stood on the stump. “Be my friend!” The two of them went off. They went to the manor where there was no water. “Ride around the manor three times, and there’ll be water.” She took the mare, rode around three times, and water appeared. Then he was given a wagon and a horse from the manor there. The two of them sat down and set off. They arrived at the manor where the girl had disappeared. “Gather all the manor’s keys and run around the manor three times, and the girl will appear.” They gathered the keys, circled the manor, and the girl appeared on the porch where she had been. Recorded by J. Paulauskas from J. Varnelis in 1955. EXPLANATIONS OF LESS COMMON WORDS AND SLAVIC LOANWORDS angliežas — a kind of dance apkånčioti — to finish, complete apsisėgti — to put on astanovka — a disturbance; a stop; a shortage bačiuška — an Orthodox clergyman (literally, “little father”) bášlikas — a head covering, usually sewn onto a greatcoat be parõs — untimely, before the time blūdas — a daze bostva⟨bagov⟩a — wealth būlava — a club bufklėti (vufklėti) — to grumble, growl, purr burnõsas — a gray, long woolen overcoat būtuvė — state, life cvietas — color cickà — breast, bosom cata — a pair čeraunykas — enchanter, sorcerer čėrtas — devil čītoti — to read černoknežnikas — enchanter, sorcerer dábaros — now dasdairýti — to look, keep watch daspėdinėti — to ripen, mature 228 degù — hot drabežà — trifle dūkas — spirit, fog džà, da — oh gyventuvė — life gòðnas, -à — good, innocent išlazduoti puselės — to beat, strike išdantýti — to make teeth išliečyti — to heal ištaisyti — to let out from žà (<žà) table — from behind the table išživyti — to nourish (cf. Polish wyżywić) Iujà, Jujà, Juvjà, Ivjà — name of a small town kapitas — hoof kaptōnas — coarse homespun coat, overcoat karuliuoti — to hang kavàkas <kavalkas — piece (of feet) kāzlas — billy goat kleñčyti — to make kneel; to swear kmorà — cloud korà — fine, punishment krosuoti — to begin blooming; to head (of grain); to dye krūlickas,-à (krūlickas,-à) — rounded (round) krūgū — around, in a circle kuliẽšė — barley groat soup (with potatoes) kvãras, -à — sick, ill laidýti — to milk lañ (land) — fox laš ka — bed liš, lyš — only, merely liška, lyška — an odd number lobas — small pit lòðnas, -à — fertile, good lopà — paw, leg mačiula — pit (from Belarusian) maladìežius — youth malankà — lightning malatornìa — threshing machine mandliùs — hump mātiuška — the wife of an Orthodox clergyman (baciūska), mother dear maskeláitis, -ė — tiny, little màškickas, -à — tiny mėdžias — forest mėsàedys — the period from Christmas until Lent moterýnė — wife nàta, nàtai — very nenàto — not very, not entirely padvildinėti — to deceive pakuōpti — to bury, cover over, inter pancōkas — see kuliẽšė pastrañkai — ropes attached to a plough or harrow in place of shafts; heather pàtikas — a short pole patrãba — matter, need pėrezimkas — one who has survived the winter piẽ — at, near pilnyti — to guard, keep watch pōdlas — an object nobody needs; a bad person pražnōčyti — to assign preslōvija — proverb prikležėtyti — accumulate; swear, pledge priskilyti — bring close; approach; coil tightly prisileidinėti — grain begins to form in the ear, making the ear fill out pristūlyti (-inti) — draw close radnàšis, -ōji — one’s own, a relative rabnỳčios — Candlemas rasivítóti — say goodbye raspūsnas, -à — mischievous, frivolous, wanton, debauched rėda(s) — order; turn rìezvas, -à — quick ridlius — shovel rōdyti — advise rodzi — satisfy (cf. Slavic radzi) rukavėtis — scythe handle sčėstis — happiness sėdnāvytis — sow oneself sekšmė — tale, legend sėničkas, -à — little old woman serčikas — match sialà — village skariai — quickly skatyña — domestic animals skāže — says skōra — quickly skōterė — floor covering, tablecloth šl ančius — fabric woven from flax fibers that had not been soaked but had been left out in the sun smōrina — the part of the stem next to the flax head smuškà — small fur garment, fur stonāvytis — to stand, to get up 229 strielītis — hunter sumarnavóti — destroy sumiklyti — press in (submerge) in water ščėlėlis — little hole (cf. Belarusian щылина “hole”) šėtōtis — toss about što — what indeed, what then šusponis — jacket, short coat švirkšnis — lever švýrkštelti (-erti) — hit, strike, cut tūsti — spread out woven linen to bleach tūnas — stick, stake ūdaučas (ūdaučis) — widower ūkrapu apmukinti — pour hot (boiling) water over ūkoti — shout ūokolo (ōkolo) — around uražėjus — harvest to speak to transport, to carry to wander about, to travel a dance party a veil—a shroud made of thin (transparent) material to fare well a stick<a stick, a rod quickly, at once to mock to dislike, to hate, to begrudge, to find repulsive peace a sage, a sorcerer to play (music) oh, that quickly TEXTS OF THE LAZŪNAI DIALECT J. J. SENKUS Summary The collection presents dialectological texts (stories, folktales, etc.) collected in Lithuanian villages located in the vicinity of the village of Lazūnai in the Yuratiškės district of the Byelorussian SSR. The texts were collected from 1952 to 1955. The preface provides brief information about the local residents from whose speech the texts were recorded and about the local dialect, which belongs to the Eastern Dzūkai. More detailed features of the dialect are presented in the article “Some Features of the Lazūnai Dialect” (Proceedings of the Academy of Sciences of the Lithuanian SSR, Series A, I, 1958). The concluding section explains less common words and Slavic borrowings (a glossary).