The peasants still linger Some time in the market, Then go further upward, To where on the hill-side Are piled ploughs and harrows, With rakes, spades, and hatchets, And all kinds of iron-ware, And pliable wood To make rims for the cart-wheels. 230 And, oh, what a hubbub Of bargaining, swearing, Of jesting and laughter! And who could help laughing? A limp little peasant Is bending and testing The wood for the wheel-rims. One piece does not please him; He takes up another And bends it with effort; 240 It suddenly straightens, And whack!--strikes his forehead. The man begins roaring, Abusing the bully, The duffer, the block-head. Another comes driving A cart full of wood-ware, As tipsy as can be; He turns it all over! The axle is broken, 250 And, trying to mend it, He smashes the hatchet. He gazes upon it, Abusing, reproaching: "A villain, a villain, You are--not a hatchet. You see, you can't do me The least little service. The whole of your life You spend bowing before me, 260 And yet you insult me!" Our peasants determine To see the shop windows, The handkerchiefs, ribbons, And stuffs of bright colour; And near to the boot-shop Is fresh cause for laughter; For here an old peasant Most eagerly bargains For small boots of goat-skin 270 To give to his grandchild. He asks the price five times; Again and again He has turned them all over; He finds they are faultless. "Well, Uncle, pay up now, Or else be off quickly," The seller says sharply. But wait! The old fellow Still gazes, and fondles 280 The tiny boots softly, And then speaks in this wise: "My daughter won't scold me, Her husband I'll spit at, My wife--let her grumble-- I'll spit at my wife too. It's her that I pity-- My poor little grandchild. She clung to my neck, And she said, 'Little Grandfather, 290 Buy me a present.' Her soft little ringlets Were tickling my cheek, And she kissed the old Grand-dad. You wait, little bare-foot, Wee spinning-top, wait then, Some boots I will buy you, Some boots made of goat-skin." And then must old Vavil Begin to boast grandly, 300 To promise a present To old and to young. But now his last farthing Is swallowed in vodka, And how can he dare Show his eyes in the village? "My daughter won't scold me, Her husband I'll spit at, My wife--let her grumble-- I'll spit at my wife too. 310 It's her that I pity-- My poor little grandchild." And then he commences The story again Of the poor little grandchild. He's very dejected. A crowd listens round him, Not laughing, but troubled At sight of his sorrow.