All Boryna’s livestock was feeding in the stubble beyond the barn; and Kuba, watching heedfully over them in the shadow of a tall and dome-like cornstack, was at the same time teaching Vitek his prayers. “Now attend to what I am telling you,” he said solemnly; “these are holy words.” “I’m attending, Kuba, I’m attending.” “Then why are you looking at those orchards?” “I see the Klembas have got some apples on their trees still.” “Oh! and you’d like to eat them? Did you plant them?—Come, say the Creed again.” “You did not hatch the partridges, either; yet you have taken the whole brood.” “Silly lad! the apples are Klemba’s, but partridges belong to our Lord. Do you see?” “But the field where you took them belongs to the Squire.” “And the field, too, is the Lord’s. You’re too clever by half.—Now say the Creed.” He did so, but in haste, for it hurt him to stay on his knees so long. “I think that filly is going into Michael’s clover!” he exclaimed, preparing to run after her. “Don’t trouble about her, but say your prayers.” He went through them at last, but had to rest on his heels, and turned and twisted in every direction. A band of sparrows having settled on a tree close by, he shied a clod of earth at them, and at once beat his breast in contrition. “Ah, what about the Offering at the end? Swallowed like an overripe pear, I suppose?” He said the Offering, and immediately started up to wake Lapa and play with it. “The calf-like witling! Always scampering about!” “Are you going to take the birds to his Reverence?” “Yes, I am.” “They would be nice, if roasted here....” “You have potatoes to roast. What would you more?” “See, they are going to church already!” cried Vitek, glancing through the hedge and the orchard-trees at the red aprons that went twinkling along the road. It was pretty warm, and all the doors and windows of the huts had been thrown wide open. Here and there, in front of the huts, some were still washing their faces, or combing or plaiting their hair, or beating their Sunday garments, which had suffered from a week’s stay in the trunks; but others had already started, in raiment of the hues of vermilion poppies, or saffron-tinted dahlias, or nasturtium flowers. Women and girls, in bright array, farm-hands, little children, grave husbandmen, in long white capotes that reminded you of huge sheaves of rye, were all slowly wending their way to church along the roads that led to the pond, which reflected the sunbeams like a golden trencher. And joyfully the big bells boomed, and told of Sunday, and rest, and prayer. Kuba had meant to wait till they rang no longer, but his patience gave way, so, putting the partridges under his capote, he said: “Vitek! as soon as they have done ringing, drive the cattle to the byre, and then come to church.”