Then the
rain came and Serge could catch it in a cup. Then the
summer came and the great heat and the storms, and Serge
could watch the lightning.

"What is lightning for?" he would ask of Yump, the cook,
as she stood kneading the _mush_, or dough, to make
_slab_, or pancake, for the morrow. Yump shook her _knob_,
or head, with a look of perplexity on her big _mugg_, or
face.

"It is God's will," she said.

Thus Serge grew up a thoughtful child.

At times he would say to his mother, "Matrinska (little
mother), why is the sky blue?" And she couldn't tell him.

Or at times he would say to his father, "Boob (Russian
for father), what is three times six?" But his father
didn't know.

Each year Serge grew.

Life began to perplex the boy. He couldn't understand
it. No one could tell him anything.

Sometimes he would talk with Itch, the serving man.

"Itch," he asked, "what is morality?" But Itch didn't
know. In his simple life he had never heard of it.

At times people came to the house--Snip, the schoolmaster,
who could read and write, and Cinch, the harness maker,
who made harness.

Once there came Popoff, the inspector of police, in his
blue coat with fur on it. He stood in front of the fire
writing down the names of all the people in the house.
And when he came to Itch, Serge noticed how Itch trembled
and cowered before Popoff, cringing as he brought a
three-legged stool and saying, "Sit near the fire, little
father; it is cold." Popoff laughed and said, "Cold as
Siberia, is it not, little brother?" Then he said, "Bare
me your arm to the elbow, and let me see if our mark is
on it still." And Itch raised his sleeve to the elbow
and Serge saw that there was a mark upon it burnt deep
and black.

"I thought so," said Popoff, and he laughed. But Yump,
the cook, beat the fire with a stick so that the sparks
flew into Popoff's face. "You are too near the fire,
little inspector," she said. "It burns."

All that evening Itch sat in the corner of the kitchen,
and Serge saw that there were tears on his face.

"Why does he cry?" asked Serge.

"He has been in Siberia," said Yump as she poured water
into the great iron pot to make soup for the week after
the next.

Serge grew more thoughtful each year.

All sorts of things, occurrences of daily life, set him
thinking. One day he saw some peasants drowning a tax
collector in the river. It made a deep impression on him.
He couldn't understand it. There seem