De wolf van Doncols

De wolf van Doncols
In the past, it was not for fun to live in a village among the forests, where there were still wolves. But the last wolf was a step like the others, a two-legged wolf, a jolly fellow, better known in the country than a dozen real wolves.

He was not from Doncols but from Bras and he spoke the dialect better than Luxembourgish. He had been a shepherd in Doncols, and when his sheepfold was no longer there, he began to run along the roads as a pedlar, selling baskets of potatoes, fruit, and laundry that he had woven himself. And sometimes hazelnuts and pears, it was for the children:

Why was he called the wolf? That's because he wore a wolf's skin as a hat, which was a cap, a hat, and a coat at the same time. It was a terrible beast, he had killed it with a big stone, he said. But the issue was quite different. During this time, all (the) people who killed a wolf received a bonus from the municipality. All you had to do was show the skin, and you could go from house to house to get your money. But our funny friend, he always showed the same skin and begged for a different animal every time. In the end, he never changed his hat again, as if it had become his own skin. With his beard, he was soon the wolf. Little girls trembled with fear at the sight, but there was no danger. He loved the boys and girls and he could laugh at any moment. Even though it was snowing and freezing to the point of creaking, he still laughed when he knocked on your window. Where he was known, he entered through the enclosure or even through the small door of the barn. It seems that he slept in all the barns in the canton, with the martens and the crows. He must have been in rock-solid health to set foot in all the waters and wade through all the mud puddles without gout or cough. Not even a cold!

And his fables! The first wolf he would have cut his head with his pruning hook, the second, who had thrown him backwards to the ground, he would have stuck his knife in his intestines, the third he would have pushed the handle into his mouth to make him lose his breath. "And in the fourth," he said, "I wanted to kick him so badly that he would starve to death on the Way of St. James (= Milky Way), but he brought his legs up his ass." Jokes and small tasks, it was his job. He wasn't lazy. In the summer he went to work (= worked as a day laborer), in the winter he did his turn. It was his existence. Always on the go, the sun, rain and ice. He walked like a bear, hood on his back, laden like a donkey. But sometimes he had to drag himself through the alleys like a monkey. He was neither mean nor fussy, and no one would have seen him dirty and drunk in a manure pit. A toast and a bowl of coffee satiated him. "Anything can be used," said the wolf, and he chewed on a fly," he said. He didn't need black pudding broth. The poor man who never found his master had no enemies. He was an old bachelor with no family. Many farmers would have taken it for the vigil and spent the night in the barn. "Goodbye, wolf!" And it was very often.

No one knows what happened to him. He has bequeathed his small name to the village. In addition to the "boars" of Bras, the "dogs" of Wardin, the "sculpins" of Harzy, the "crayfish" of Benonchamps and the "dung beetles" of Mageret inhabit the "wolves" of Doncols.

jan-ke