“I have wandered like that stork, and like a swallow; I come from afar, I bring news from thy children.”
Her whole soul rushed to the eyes of that mother, and she asked the wayfarer straightway:
“Dost thou know of my Yasko?”
“Dost thou love that son most that thou askest first about him? Well, one son of thine is in forests, he works with his axe, he spreads his net in lakes; another herds horses in the steppe, he sings plaintive songs and looks at the stars; the third son climbs mountains, passes over naked rocks and high pastures, spends the night with sheep and shouts at the eagles. All bend down before thy knees and send thee greeting.”
“But Yasko?” asked the mother with an anxious face.
“I keep sad news for the last. Life is going ill with Yasko: the field does not give its fruit to him, poverty and hunger torment the man, his days and months pass in suffering. Amid strangers and misery he has even forgotten thy language; forget him, since he has no thought for thee.”
When he had finished, the woman took the man’s hand, led him to her pantry in the cottage, and, seizing a loaf from the shelf, she said:
“Give this bread, O wayfarer, to Yasko!”
Then she untied a small kerchief, took a bright silver coin from it, and with trembling voice added:
“I am not rich, but this too is for Yasko.”