The village Kousminsky Is rich and commercial And terribly dirty. It's built on a hill-side, And slopes down the valley, Then climbs again upwards,-- So how could one ask of it Not to be dirty?[15] It boasts of two churches. The one is "dissenting," 130 The other "Established." The house with inscription, "The School-House," is empty, In ruins and deserted; And near stands the barber's, A hut with one window, From which hangs the sign-board Of "Barber and Bleeder." A dirty inn also There is, with its sign-board 140 Adorned by a picture: A great nosy tea-pot With plump little tea-cups Held out by a waiter, Suggesting a fat goose Surrounded by goslings. A row of small shops, too, There is in the village. The peasants go straight To the market-place, find there 150 A large crowd of people And goods in profusion. How strange!--notwithstanding There's no church procession The men have no hats on, Are standing bare-headed, As though in the presence Of some holy Image: Look, how they're being swallowed-- The hoods of the peasants.[16] 160 The beer-shop and tavern Are both overflowing; All round are erected Large tents by the roadside For selling of vodka. And though in each tent There are five agile waiters, All young and most active, They find it quite hopeless To try to get change right. 170 Just look how the peasants Are stretching their hands out, With hoods, shirts, and waistcoats! Oh, you, thirst of Russia, Unquenchable, endless You are! But the peasant, When once he is sated, Will soon get a new hood At close of the fair.... The spring sun is playing 180 On heads hot and drunken, On boisterous revels, On bright mixing colours; The men wear wide breeches Of corduroy velvet, With gaudy striped waistcoats And shirts of all colours; The women wear scarlet; The girls' plaited tresses Are decked with bright ribbons; 190 They glide about proudly, Like swans on the water. Some beauties are even Attired in the fashion Of Petersburg ladies; Their dresses spread stiffly On wide hoops around them; But tread on their skirts-- They will turn and attack you, Will gobble like turkeys! 200 Blame rather the fashion Which fastens upon you Great fishermen's baskets! A woman dissenter Looks darkly upon them, And whispers with malice: "A famine, a famine Most surely will blight us. The young growths are sodden, The floods unabated; 210 Since women have taken To red cotton dresses The forests have withered, And wheat--but no wonder!" "But why, little Mother, Are red cotton dresses To blame for the trouble? I don't understand you." "The cotton is _French_, And it's reddened in dog's blood! 220 D'you understand now?"