(What murmurs of horror Arise! Do you notice The eyes, full of tears?) And now conies the climax, The terrible moment, And even the mother Has loosened her hold On the corpulent bobbin, It rolls to the ground.... 210 And see how cat Vaska At once becomes active And pounces upon it. At times less enthralling The antics of Vaska Would meet their deserts; But now he is patting And touching the bobbin And leaping around it With flexible movements, 220 And no one has noticed. It rolls to a distance, The thread is unwound. Whoever has witnessed The peasant's delight At the tales of the pilgrims Will realise this: Though never so crushing His labours and worries, Though never so pressing 230 The call of the tavern, Their weight will not deaden The soul of the peasant And will not benumb it. The road that's before him Is broad and unending.... When old fields, exhausted, Play false to the reaper, He'll seek near the forest For soil more productive. 240 The work may be hard, But the new plot repays him: It yields a rich harvest Without being manured. A soil just as fertile Lies hid in the soul Of the people of Russia: O Sower, then come! The pilgrim Iona Since long is well known 250 In the village of "Earthworms." The peasants contend For the honour of giving The holy man shelter. At last, to appease them, He'd say to the women, "Come, bring out your icons!" They'd hurry to fetch them. Iona, prostrating Himself to each icon, 260 Would say to the people, "Dispute not! Be patient, And God will decide: The saint who looks kindest At me I will follow." And often he'd follow The icon most poor To the lowliest hovel. That hut would become then A Cup overflowing; 270 The women would run there With baskets and saucepans, All thanks to Iona. And now, without hurry Or noise, he's beginning To tell them a story, "Two Infamous Sinners," But first, most devoutly, He crosses himself. _Two Infamous Sinners_ Come, let us praise the Omnipotent! 280 Let us the legend relate Told by a monk in the Priory. Thus did I hear him narrate: Once were twelve brigands notorious, One, Kudear, at their head; Torrents of blood of good Christians Foully the miscreants shed. Deep in the forest their hiding-place, Rich was their booty and rare; Once Kudear from near Kiev Town 290 Stole a young maiden most fair. Days Kudear with his mistress spent, Nights on the road with his horde; Suddenly, conscience awoke in him, Stirred by the grace of the Lord.