"'And we, tired and hungry, Stood listening in silence. He kicked the wet earth With his boot while he scolded, Not far from the edge Of the pit. I stood near him. And happened to give him A push with my shoulder; Then somehow a second 480 And third pushed him gently.... We spoke not a word, Gave no sign to each other, But silently, slowly, Drew closer together, And edging the German Respectfully forward, We brought him at last To the brink of the hollow.... He tumbled in headlong! 490 ''A ladder!'' he bellows; Nine shovels reply. ''Naddai!''[51]--the word fell From my lips on the instant, The word to which people Work gaily in Russia; ''Naddai!'' and ''Naddai!'' And we laboured so bravely That soon not a trace Of the pit was remaining, 500 The earth was as smooth As before we had touched it; And then we stopped short And we looked at each other....' "The old man was silent. 'What further, Savyeli?' "'What further? Ah, bad times: The prison in Buy-Town (I learnt there my letters), Until we were sentenced; 510 The convict-mines later; And plenty of lashes. But I never frowned At the lash in the prison; They flogged us but poorly. And later I nearly Escaped to the forest; They caught me, however. Of course they did not Pat my head for their trouble; 520 The Governor was through Siberia famous For flogging. But had not Shalashnikov flogged us? I spit at the floggings I got in the prison! Ah, he was a Master! He knew how to flog you! He toughened my hide so You see it has served me 530 For one hundred years, And 'twill serve me another. But life was not easy, I tell you, Matrona: First twenty years prison, Then twenty years exile. I saved up some money, And when I came home, Built this hut for myself. And here I have lived 540 For a great many years now. They loved the old grandad So long as he'd money, But now it has gone They would part with him gladly, They spit in his face. Eh, you plucky toy heroes! You're fit to make war Upon old men and women!' "And that was as much 550 As the grandfather told me." "And now for your story," They answer Matrona. "'Tis not very bright. From one trouble God In His goodness preserved me; For Sitnikov died Of the cholera. Soon, though, Another arose, I will tell you about it." 560 "Naddai!" say the peasants (They love the word well), They are filling the glasses. CHAPTER IV DJOMUSHKA