"What a fool you are!" says his wife. Hungry and cross she was, as even Maroosia would be after a day like that watching other people stuff themselves. "What a fool you are!" says she. "People may very well sing when they have eaten tasty dishes and drunk good wine. But what reason have you got for making a merry noise in the night?" "Why, my dear" says he, "we have been at my brother's name-day feast. I am ashamed to go home without a song. I'll sing. I'll sing so that everyone shall think he loaded us with good things like the rest." "Well, sing if you like; but you'll sing by yourself." So the peasant, the poor brother, started singing a song with his dry throat. He lifted his voice and sang like the rest, while his wife trudged silently beside him. But as he sang it seemed to the peasant that he heard two voices singing--his own and another's. He stopped, and asked his wife,-- "Is that you joining in my song with a little thin voice?" "What's the matter with you? I never thought of singing with you. I never opened my mouth." "Who is it then?" "No one except yourself. Any one would say you had had a drink of wine after all." "But I heard some one ... a little weak voice ... a little sad voice ... joining with mine." "I heard nothing," said his wife; "but sing again, and I'll listen." The poor man sang again. He sang alone. His wife listened, and it was clear that there were two voices singing--the dry voice of the poor man, and a little miserable voice that came from the shadows under the trees. The poor man stopped, and asked out loud,-- "Who are you who are singing with me?" And a little thin voice answered out of the shadows by the roadside, under the trees,-- "I am Misery." "So it was you, Misery, who were helping me?" "Yes, master, I was helping you." "Well, little Master Misery, come along with us and keep us company." "I'll do that willingly," says little Master Misery, "and I'll never, never leave you at all--no, not if you have no other friend in the world." And a wretched little man, with a miserable face and little thin legs and arms, came out of the shadows and went home with the peasant and his wife. It was late when they got home, but little Master Misery asked the peasant to take him to the tavern. "After such a day as this has been," says he, "there's nothing else to be done." "But I have no money," says the peasant. [Illustration: Misery seated himself firmly on his shoulders and pulled out Handfuls of his hair.] "What of that?" says little Master Misery. "Spring has begun, and you have a winter jacket on. It will soon be summer, and whether you have it or not you won't wear it. Bring it along to the tavern, and change it for a drink." The poor man went to the tavern with little Master Misery, and they sat there and drank the vodka that the tavern-keeper gave them in exchange for the coat.