It was a bright, frosty December day when Nekrassov's coffin was carried to the grave on the shoulders of friends who had loved and admired him. The orations delivered above it were full of passionate emotion called forth by the knowledge that the speakers were expressing not only their own sentiments, but those of a whole nation. Nekrassov is dead. But all over Russia young and old repeat and love his poetry, so full of tenderness and grief and pity for the Russian people and their endless woe. Quotations from the works of Nekrassov are as abundant and widely known in Russia as those from Shakespeare in England, and no work of his is so familiar and so widely quoted as the national epic, now presented to the English public, _Who can be Happy in Russia?_ DAVID SOSKICE. PROLOGUE The year doesn't matter, The land's not important, But seven good peasants Once met on a high-road. From Province "Hard-Battered," From District "Most Wretched," From "Destitute" Parish, From neighbouring hamlets-- "Patched," "Barefoot," and "Shabby," "Bleak," "Burnt-Out," and "Hungry," From "Harvestless" also, 11 They met and disputed Of who can, in Russia, Be happy and free? Luka said, "The pope," [2] And Roman, "The Pomyeshchick," [3] Demyan, "The official," "The round-bellied merchant," Said both brothers Goobin, Mitrodor and Ivan. 20 Pakhom, who'd been lost In profoundest reflection, Exclaimed, looking down At the earth, "'Tis his Lordship, His most mighty Highness, The Tsar's Chief Adviser," And Prov said, "The Tsar." Like bulls are the peasants: Once folly is in them You cannot dislodge it 30 Although you should beat them With stout wooden cudgels: They stick to their folly, And nothing can move them. They raised such a clamour That those who were passing Thought, "Surely the fellows Have found a great treasure And share it amongst them!" They all had set out 40 On particular errands: The one to the blacksmith's, Another in haste To fetch Father Prokoffy To christen his baby. Pakhom had some honey To sell in the market; The two brothers Goobin Were seeking a horse Which had strayed from their herd. 50 Long since should the peasants Have turned their steps homewards, But still in a row They are hurrying onwards As quickly as though The grey wolf were behind them. Still further, still faster They hasten, contending. Each shouts, nothing hearing, And time does not wait. 60 In quarrel they mark not The fiery-red sunset Which blazes in Heaven As evening is falling, And all through the night They would surely have wandered If not for the woman, The pox-pitted "Blank-wits," Who met them and cried: "Heh, God-fearing peasants, 70 Pray, what is your mission? What seek ye abroad In the blackness of midnight?"