herring itself Granny had hidden.

In the evening a potter began firing pots on the ravine. In the meadow
below the girls got up a choral dance and sang songs. They played the
concertina. And on the other side of the river a kiln for baking pots
was lighted, too, and the girls sang songs, and in the distance the
singing sounded soft and musical. The peasants were noisy in and about
the tavern. They were singing with drunken voices, each on his own
account, and swearing at one another, so that Olga could only shudder
and say:

"Oh, holy Saints!"

She was amazed that the abuse was incessant, and those who were loudest
and most persistent in this foul language were the old men who were so
near their end. And the girls and children heard the swearing, and were
not in the least disturbed by it, and it was evident that they were used
to it from their cradles.

It was past midnight, the kilns on both sides of the river were put out,
but in the meadow below and in the tavern the merrymaking still went on.
The old father and Kiryak, both drunk, walking arm-in-arm and jostling
against each other's shoulders, went to the barn where Olga and Marya
were lying.

"Let her alone," the old man persuaded him; "let her alone.... She is a
harmless woman.... It's a sin...."

"Ma-arya!" shouted Kiryak.

"Let her be.... It's a sin.... She is not a bad woman."

Both stopped by the barn and went on.

"I lo-ove the flowers of the fi-ield," the old man began singing
suddenly in a high, piercing tenor. "I lo-ove to gather them in the
meadows!"

Then he spat, and with a filthy oath went into the hut.

IV

Granny put Sasha by her kitchen-garden and told her to keep watch that
the geese did not go in. It was a hot August day. The tavernkeeper's
geese could make their way into the kitchen-garden by the backs of the
huts, but now they were busily engaged picking up oats by the tavern,
peacefully conversing together, and only the gander craned his head
high as though trying to see whether the old woman were coming with
her stick. The other geese might come up from below, but they were now
grazing far away the other side of the river, stretched out in a long
white garland about the meadow. Sasha stood about a little, grew weary,
and, seeing that the geese were not coming, went away to the ravine.

There she saw Marya's eldest daughter Motka, who was standing motionless
on a big stone, staring at the church. Marya had given birth to thirt