He has a fresh, healthy, intelligent face, with hair just appearing on his chin and upper lip, and with intelligent grey eyes. He leaves the plough, evidently wishing to have a rest, and inclined for a talk. I take the plough-handles, and touch the perspiring, well-fed, full-grown mare. She presses her weight into her collar, and I take a few steps. But I do not manage the plough, the share jumps out of the furrow, and I stop the horse. "No, you can't do it." "I have only spoilt your furrow." "That doesn't matter--I'll put it right!" He backs his horse, to plough the part I have missed, but does not go on ploughing. "It is hot in the sun.... Let's go and sit under the bushes," says he, pointing to a little wood just across the field. We go into the shade of the young birches. He sits down on the ground, and I stop in front of him. "What village are you from?" "From Botvínino." "Is that far?" "There it is, shimmering on the hill," says he, pointing. "Why are you ploughing so far from home?" "This is not my land: it belongs to a peasant here. I have hired myself out to him." "Hired yourself out for the whole summer?" "No--to plough this ground twice, and sow it, all properly." "Has he much land, then?" "Yes, he sows about fifteen bushels of seed." "Does he! And is that horse your own? It's a good horse." "Yes, it's not a bad mare," he answers, with quiet pride. The mare really is, in build, size, and condition, such as a peasant rarely possesses. "I expect you are in service somewhere, and do carting?" "No, I live at home. I'm my own master!" "What, so young?" "Yes! I was left fatherless at seven. My brother works at a Moscow factory. At first my sister helped; she also worked at a factory. But since I was fourteen I've had no help in all my affairs, and have worked and earned," says he, with calm consciousness of his dignity. "Are you married?" "No." "Then, who does your housework?" "Why, mother!" "And you have a cow?" "Two cows." "Have you, really?... And how old are you?" I ask. "Eighteen," he replies, with a slight smile, understanding that it interests me to see that so young a fellow has been able to manage so well. This, evidently, pleases him. "How young you still are!" I say. "And will you have to go as a soldier?" "Of course ... be conscripted!" says he, with the calm expression with which people speak of old age, death, and in general of things it is useless to argue about, because they are unavoidable. As always happens now when one speaks to peasants, our talk touches on the land, and, describing his life, he says he has not enough land, and that if he did not do wage-labour, sometimes with and sometimes without his horse, he would not have anything to live on. But he says this with merry, pleased and proud self-satisfaction; and again remarks that he was left alone, master of the house, when he was fourteen, and has earned everything himself. "And do you drink vódka?"