A very old willow There is at the end Of the village of "Earthworms," Where most of the folk Have been diggers and delvers From times very ancient (Though some produced tar). This willow had witnessed The lives of the peasants: Their holidays, dances, 10 Their communal meetings, Their floggings by day, In the evening their wooing, And now it looked down On a wonderful feast. The feast was conducted In Petersburg fashion, For Klimka, the peasant (Our former acquaintance), Had seen on his travels 20 Some noblemen's banquets, With toasts and orations, And he had arranged it. The peasants were sitting On tree-trunks cut newly For building a hut. With them, too, our seven (Who always were ready To see what was passing) Were sitting and chatting 30 With Vlass, the old Elder. As soon as they fancied A drink would be welcome, The Elder called out To his son, "Run for Trifon!" With Trifon the deacon, A jovial fellow, A chum of the Elder's, His sons come as well. Two pupils they are 40 Of the clerical college Named Sava and Grisha. The former, the eldest, Is nineteen years old. He looks like a churchman Already, while Grisha Has fine, curly hair, With a slight tinge of red, And a thin, sallow face. Both capital fellows 50 They are, kind and simple, They work with the ploughshare, The scythe, and the sickle, Drink vodka on feast-days, And mix with the peasants Entirely as equals.... The village lies close To the banks of the Volga; A small town there is On the opposite side. 60 (To speak more correctly, There's now not a trace Of the town, save some ashes: A fire has demolished it Two days ago.) Some people are waiting To cross by the ferry, While some feed their horses (All friends of the peasants). Some beggars have crawled 70 To the spot; there are pilgrims, Both women and men; The women loquacious, The men very silent. The old Prince Yutiatin Is dead, but the peasants Are not yet aware That instead of the hayfields His heirs have bequeathed them A long litigation. 80 So, drinking their vodka, They first of all argue Of how they'll dispose Of the beautiful hayfields. You were not all cozened,[54] You people of Russia, And robbed of your land. In some blessed spots You were favoured by fortune! By some lucky chance-- 90 The Pomyeshchick's long absence, Some slip of posrednik's, By wiles of the commune, You managed to capture A slice of the forest. How proud are the peasants In such happy corners! The Elder may tap At the window for taxes, The peasant will bluster,-- 100 One answer has he: "Just sell off the forest, And don't bother me!"