"Well, there's your pope's life,-- 480 There's your 'strawberry,' boaster!

For that you've been shouting And making us quarrel, You limb of the Devil!

Pray is it because Of your beard like a shovel You think you're so clever?

If so, let me tell you The goat walked in Eden With just such another 490 Before Father Adam, And yet down to our time The goat is considered The greatest of duffers!"

The culprit was silent, Afraid of a beating; And he would have got it Had not the pope's face, Turning sadly upon them, Looked over a hedge 500 At a rise in the road.

CHAPTER II

THE VILLAGE FAIR

No wonder the peasants Dislike a wet spring-tide: The peasant needs greatly A spring warm and early.

This year, though he howl Like a wolf, I'm afraid That the sun will not gladden The earth with his brightness.

The clouds wander heavily, Dropping the rain down 10 Like cows with full udders.

The snow has departed, Yet no blade of gra.s.s, Not a tiny green leaflet, Is seen in the meadows.

The earth has not ventured To don its new mantle Of brightest green velvet, But lies sad and bare Like a corpse without grave-clothes Beneath the dull heavens. 21 One pities the peasant; Still more, though, his cattle: For when they have eaten The scanty reserves Which remain from the winter, Their master will drive them To graze in the meadows, And what will they find there But bare, inky blackness? 30 Nor settled the weather Until it was nearing The feast of St. Nichol, And then the poor cattle Enjoyed the green pastures.

The day is a hot one, The peasants are strolling Along 'neath the birch-trees.

They say to each other, "We pa.s.sed through one village, 40 We pa.s.sed through another, And both were quite empty; To-day is a feast-day, But where are the people?"

They reach a large village; The street is deserted Except for small children, And inside the houses Sit only the oldest Of all the old women. 50 The wickets are fastened Securely with padlocks; The padlock's a loyal And vigilant watch-dog; It barks not, it bites not, But no one can pa.s.s it.

They walk through the village And see a clear mirror Beset with green framework-- A pond full of water; 60 And over its surface Are hovering swallows And all kinds of insects; The gnats quick and meagre Skip over the water As though on dry land; And in the laburnums Which grow on the banksides The landrails are squeaking.

A raft made of tree-trunks 70 Floats near, and upon it The pope's heavy daughter Is wielding her beetle, She looks like a hay-stack, Unsound and dishevelled, Her skirts gathered round her.

Upon the raft, near her, A duck and some ducklings Are sleeping together.

And hark! from the water 80 The neigh of a horse comes; The peasants are startled, They turn all together: Two heads they see, moving Along through the water-- The one is a peasant's, A black head and curly, In one ear an ear-ring Which gleams in the sunlight; A horse's the other, 90 To which there is fastened A rope of some yards length, Held tight in the teeth Of the peasant beside it.

The man swims, the horse swims; The horse neighs, the man neighs; They make a fine uproar!

The raft with the woman And ducklings upon it Is tossing and heaving. 100

The horse with the peasant Astride has come panting From out of the water, The man with white body And throat black with sunburn; The water is streaming From horse and from rider.

"Say, why is your village So empty of people?

Are all dead and buried?" 110

"They've gone to Kousminsky; A fair's being held there Because it's a saint's day."

"How far is Kousminsky?"

"Three versts, I should fancy."

"We'll go to Kousminsky,"

The peasants decided, And each to himself thought, "Perhaps we shall find there The happy, the free one." 120

The village Kousminsky Is rich and commercial And terribly dirty.

It's built on a hill-side, And slopes down the valley, Then climbs again upwards,-- So how could one ask of it Not to be dirty?[15]

It boasts of two churches.

The one is "dissenting," 130 The other "Established."

The house with inscription, "The School-House," is empty, In ruins and deserted; And near stands the barber's, A hut with one window, From which hangs the sign-board Of "Barber and Bleeder."

A dirty inn also There is, with its sign-board 140 Adorned by a picture: A great nosy tea-pot With plump little tea-cups Held out by a waiter, Suggesting a fat goose Surrounded by goslings.

A row of small shops, too, There is in the village.

The peasants go straight To the market-place, find there 150 A large crowd of people And goods in profusion.

How strange!--notwithstanding There's no church procession The men have no hats on, Are standing bare-headed, As though in the presence Of some holy Image: Look, how they're being swallowed-- The hoods of the peasants.[16] 160

The beer-shop and tavern Are both overflowing; All round are erected Large tents by the roadside For selling of vodka.

And though in each tent There are five agile waiters, All young and most active, They find it quite hopeless To try to get change right. 170 Just look how the peasants Are stretching their hands out, With hoods, shirts, and waistcoats!

Oh, you, thirst of Russia, Unquenchable, endless You are! But the peasant, When once he is sated, Will soon get a new hood At close of the fair....

The spring sun is playing 180 On heads hot and drunken, On boisterous revels, On bright mixing colours; The men wear wide breeches Of corduroy velvet, With gaudy striped waistcoats And shirts of all colours; The women wear scarlet; The girls' plaited tresses Are decked with bright ribbons; 190 They glide about proudly, Like swans on the water.

Some beauties are even Attired in the fashion Of Petersburg ladies; Their dresses spread stiffly On wide hoops around them; But tread on their skirts-- They will turn and attack you, Will gobble like turkeys! 200

Blame rather the fashion Which fastens upon you Great fishermen's baskets!

A woman dissenter Looks darkly upon them, And whispers with malice: "A famine, a famine Most surely will blight us.

The young growths are sodden, The floods unabated; 210 Since women have taken To red cotton dresses The forests have withered, And wheat--but no wonder!"

"But why, little Mother, Are red cotton dresses To blame for the trouble?

I don't understand you."

"The cotton is _French_, And it's reddened in dog's blood! 220 D'you understand now?"

The peasants still linger Some time in the market, Then go further upward, To where on the hill-side Are piled ploughs and harrows, With rakes, spades, and hatchets, And all kinds of iron-ware, And pliable wood To make rims for the cart-wheels. 230 And, oh, what a hubbub Of bargaining, swearing, Of jesting and laughter!

And who could help laughing?

A limp little peasant Is bending and testing The wood for the wheel-rims.

One piece does not please him; He takes up another And bends it with effort; 240 It suddenly straightens, And whack!--strikes his forehead.

The man begins roaring, Abusing the bully, The duffer, the block-head.

Another comes driving A cart full of wood-ware, As tipsy as can be; He turns it all over!

The axle is broken, 250 And, trying to mend it, He smashes the hatchet.

He gazes upon it, Abusing, reproaching: "A villain, a villain, You are--not a hatchet.

You see, you can't do me The least little service.

The whole of your life You spend bowing before me, 260 And yet you insult me!"

Our peasants determine To see the shop windows, The handkerchiefs, ribbons, And stuffs of bright colour; And near to the boot-shop Is fresh cause for laughter; For here an old peasant Most eagerly bargains For small boots of goat-skin 270 To give to his grandchild.

He asks the price five times; Again and again He has turned them all over; He finds they are faultless.

"Well, Uncle, pay up now, Or else be off quickly,"

The seller says sharply.

But wait! The old fellow Still gazes, and fondles 280 The tiny boots softly, And then speaks in this wise:

"My daughter won't scold me, Her husband I'll spit at, My wife--let her grumble-- I'll spit at my wife too.

It's her that I pity-- My poor little grandchild.

She clung to my neck, And she said, 'Little Grandfather, 290 Buy me a present.'

Her soft little ringlets Were tickling my cheek, And she kissed the old Grand-dad.