And he tramped on, and the wet snow was blown into his face, the wind grew stronger, and his side pained him more than ever. "If only the wind would change! And yet perhaps it's better so, because coming back I shall feel more tired, and I shall have the wind in my back. Then it will be quite different. Everything will be done; I shall have nothing on my mind." He was obliged to stop a minute and draw breath; this rather frightened him. "What is the matter with me? A Cantonist[23] ought to know something of the cold," he thought sadly. And he recalls his time of service under Nicholas, twenty-five years' active service with the musket, beside his childhood as a Cantonist. He has walked enough in his life, marching over hill and dale, in snow and frost and every sort of wind. And what snows, what frosts! The trees would split, the little birds fall dead to the ground, and the Russian soldier marched briskly forward, and even sang a song, a _trepak_, a _komarinski_, and beat time with his feet. The thought of having endured those thirty-five years of service, of having lived through all those hardships, all those snows, all those winds, all the mud, hunger, thirst, and privation, and having come home in health--the thought fills him with pride. He holds up his head and feels his strength renewed. "Ha, ha, what is a bit of a frost like this to me? In Russia, well, yes, there it was something like." He walks on, the wind has lessened a little, it grows darker, night is falling. "Call that a day," he said to himself. "Well, I never," and he began to hurry, not to be overtaken by the night. Not in vain has he been so regularly to study in the Shool of a Sabbath afternoon--he knows that one should go out and come home again before the sun goes down. He feels rather hungry. He has this peculiarity--that being hungry makes him cheerful. He knows appetite is a good sign; "his" traders, the ones who send him on errands, are continually lamenting their lack of it. He, blessed be His Name, has a good appetite; except when he is not up to the mark, as yesterday, when the bread tasted sour to him. Why should it have been sour? Soldiers' bread? Once, perhaps, yes; but now? Phonye[24] bakes bread that any Jewish baker might be proud of, and he had bought a new loaf which it was a pleasure to cut; but he was not up to the mark, a chill was going through his bones. But, praised be He whose Name he is not worthy to mention, that happens to him but seldom. Now he is hungry, and not only that, but he has in his pocket a piece of bread and cheese; the cheese was given him by the trader's wife, may she live and be well. She is a charitable woman--she has a Jewish heart. If only she would not scold so, he thinks, she would be really nice. He recalls to mind his dead wife.