LITMIR.BIZ

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even though the misty breath of the northern spring was beginning to steal over the whole.

      Presently a young fellow with flaxen hair, a pendent underlip, and a tall, ungainly figure, by name Mishuk Diatlov, essayed to troll the stanza:

      "That morn to him the maiden came,

       To find his soul had fled."

      Whereupon the old soldier shouted:

      "Hi, you! Have you forgotten the day?"

      And even Boev saw fit to take umbrage at the singing, and, threatening Diatlov with his fist, to rap out:

      "Ah, sobatchnia dusha!" ["Soul of a dog."]

      "What a rude, rough, primitive lot we Russians are!" commented Ossip, seating himself atop of the icebreaker, and screwing up his eyes to measure its fall. "To speak plainly, we Russians are sheer barbarians. Once upon a time, I may tell you, an anchorite happened to be on his travels; and as the people came pressing around him, and kneeling to him, and tearfully beseeching him with the words, 'Oh holy father, intercede for us with the wolves which are devouring our substance!' he replied: 'Ha! Are you, or are you not, Orthodox Christians? See that I assign you not to condign perdition!' Yes, angry, in very truth he was. Nay, he even spat in the people's faces. Yet in reality he was a kindly old man, for his eyes kept shedding tears equally with theirs."

      Twenty sazheni below the icebreaker was a gang of barefooted sailors, engaged in hacking out the floes from under their barges; and as they shattered the brittle, greyish-blue crust on the river, the mattocks rang out, and the sharp blades of the icecutters gleamed as they thrust the broken fragments under the surface. Meanwhile, there could be heard a bubbling of water, and the sound of rivulets trickling down to the sandy margin of the river. And similarly among our own gang was there audible a scraping of planes, and a screeching of saws, and a clattering of iron braces as they were driven into the smooth yellow wood, while through all the web of these sounds there ran the ceaseless song of the bells, a song so softened by distance as to thrill the soul, much as though dingy, burdensome labour were holding revel in honour of spring, and calling upon the latter to spread itself over the starved, naked surface of the gradually thawing ground.

      At this point someone shouted hoarsely:

      "Go and fetch the German. We have not got hands enough."

      And from the bank someone bawled in reply:

      "Where IS he?"

      "In the tavern. That is where you must go and look for him."

      And as they made themselves heard, the voices floated up turgidly into the sodden air, spread themselves over the river's mournful void, and died away.

      Meanwhile our men worked with industry and speed, but not without a fault or two, for their thoughts were fixed upon the town and its washhouses and churches. And particularly restless was Sashok Diatlov, a man whose hair, as flaxen as that of his brother, seemed to have been boiled in lye. At intervals, glancing up-river, this well-built, sturdy young fellow would say softly to his brother:

      "It's cracking now, eh?"

      And, certainly, the ice had "moved" two nights ago, so that since yesterday morning the river watchmen had refused to permit horsed vehicles to cross, and only a few beadlike pedestrians now were making their way along the marked-out ice paths, while, as they proceeded, one could hear the water slapping against the planks as the latter bent under the travellers' weight.

      "Yes, it IS cracking," at length Mishuk replied with a hoist of his ginger eyebrows.

      Ossip too scanned the river from under his hand. Then he said to Mishuk:

      "Pah! It is the dry squeak of the planes in your own hand that you keep hearing, so go on with your work, you son of a beldame. And as for you, Inspector, do you help me to speed up the men instead of burying your nose in your notebook."

      By this time there remained only two more hours for work, and the arch of the icebreaker had been wholly sheathed in butter-tinted scantlings, and nothing required to be added to it save the great iron braces. Unfortunately, Boev and Saniavin, the men who had been engaged upon the task of cutting out the sockets for the braces, had worked so amiss, and run their lines so straight, that, when it came to the point, the arms of the braces refused to sink properly into the wood.

      "Oh, you cock-eyed fool of a Morduine!" shouted Ossip, smiting his fist against the side of his cap. "Do you call THAT sort of thing work?"

      At this juncture there came from somewhere on the bank a seemingly exultant shout of:

      "Ah! NOW it's giving way!"

      And almost at the same moment, there stole over the river a sort of rustle, a sort of quiet crunching which made the projecting pine branches quiver as though they were trying to catch at something, while, shouldering their mattocks, the barefooted sailors noisily hastened aboard their barges with the aid of rope ladders.

      And then curious indeed was it to see how many people suddenly came into view on the river—to see how they appeared to issue from below the very ice itself, and, hurrying to and fro like jackdaws startled by the shot of a gun, to dart hither and thither, and to seize up planks and boathooks, and to throw them down again, and once more to seize them up.

      "Put the tools together," Ossip shouted. "And look alive there, and make for the bank."

      "Aye, and a fine Easter Day it will be for us on THAT bank!" growled Sashok.

      Meanwhile, it was the river rather than the town that seemed to be motionless—the latter had begun, as it were, to quiver and reel, and, with the hill above it, to appear to be gliding slowly up stream, even as the grey, sandy bank some ten sazheni from us was beginning to grow tremulous, and to recede.

      "Run, all of you!" shouted Ossip, giving me a violent push as he did so. Then to myself in particular he added: "Why stand gaping there?"

      This caused a keen sense of danger to strike home in my heart, and to make my feet feel as though already the ice was escaping their tread. So, automatically picking themselves up, those feet started to bear my body in the direction of a spot on the sandy bank where the winter-stripped branches of a willow tree were writhing, and whither there were betaking themselves also Boev, the old soldier, Budirin, and the brothers Diatlov. Meanwhile the Morduine ran by my side, cursing vigorously as he did so, and Ossip followed us, walking backwards.

      "No, no, Narodetz," he said.

      "But, my good Ossip—"

      "Never mind. What has to be, has to be."

      "But, as likely as not, we may remain stuck here for two days!"

      "Never mind even if we DO remain stuck here."

      "But what of the festival?"

      "It will have, for this year at least, to be kept without you."

      Seating himself on the sand, the old soldier lit his pipe and growled:

      "What cowards you all are! The bank was only fifteen sazheni from us, yet you ran as though possessed!"

      "With you yourself as leader," put in Mokei.

      The old soldier took no notice, but added:

      "What were you all afraid of? Once upon a time Christ Himself, Our Little Father, died."

      "And rose again," muttered the Morduine with a tinge of resentment. Which led Boev to exclaim:

      "Puppy, hold your tongue! What right have you to air your opinions?"

      "Besides, this is Good Friday, not Easter Day," the old soldier concluded with severe, didactical mien.

      In a gap of blue between the clouds there was shining the March sun, and everywhere the ice was sparkling as though in derision of ourselves. Shading his eyes, Ossip gazed at the dissolving river, and said:

      "Yes, it IS rising—but that will not last for long."

      "No,

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