The poor man returned home, gave his wife the loaf, and said: "Listen, wife! we're invited to a party to-morrow." "What do you mean by a party? who's invited us?" "My brother! he keeps his name-day to-morrow." "Well, well! let's go." Next day they got up and went to the town, came to the rich man's house, offered him their congratulations, and sat down on a bench. A number of the name-day guests were already seated at table. All of these the host feasted gloriously, but he forgot even so much as to think of his poor brother and his wife; not a thing did he offer them; they had to sit and merely look on at the others eating and drinking. The dinner came to an end; the guests rose from table, and expressed their thanks to their host and hostess; and the poor man did likewise, got up from his bench, and bowed down to his girdle before his brother. The guests drove off homewards, full of drink and merriment, shouting, singing songs. But the poor man had to walk back empty. "Suppose we sing a song, too," he says to his wife. "What a fool you are!" says she, "people sing because they've made a good meal and had lots to drink; but why ever should you dream of singing?" "Well, at all events, I've been at my brother's name-day party. I'm ashamed of trudging along without singing. If I sing, everybody will think I've been feasted like the rest." "Sing away, then, if you like; but I won't!" The peasant began a song. Presently he heard a voice joining in it. So he stopped, and asked his wife: "Is it you that's helping me to sing with that thin little voice?" "What are you thinking about! I never even dreamt of such a thing." "Who is it, then?" "I don't know," said the woman. "But now, sing away, and I'll listen." He began his song again. There was only one person singing, yet two voices could be heard. So he stopped, and asked: "Woe, is that you that's helping me to sing?" "Yes, master," answered Woe: "it's I that's helping you." "Well then, Woe! let's all go on together." "Very good, master! I'll never depart from you now." When the peasant got home, Woe bid him to the _kabak_ or pot-house. "I've no money," says the man. "Out upon you, moujik! What do you want money for? why you've got on a sheep-skin jacket. What's the good of that? It will soon be summer; anyhow you won't be wanting to wear it. Off with the jacket, and to the pot-house we'll go." So the peasant went with Woe into the pot-house, and they drank the sheep-skin away. The next day Woe began groaning--its head ached from yesterday's drinking--and again bade the master of the house have a drink. "I've no money," said the peasant. "What do we want money for? Take the cart and the sledge; we've plenty without them."