"'Three years,' you declared,
'Did I work as pope's servant.
It wasn't a life—
'Twas a strawberry, brethren; 470
Pope's kasha[14] is made
And served up with fresh butter.
Pope's stchee[14] made with fish,
And pope's pie stuffed to bursting;
The pope's wife is fat too,
And white the pope's daughter,
His horse like a barrel,
His bees are all swollen
And booming like church bells.'
"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 grass,
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 passed through one village, 40
We passed 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 pass 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.