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131 A Day in a Famine-Stricken Village.
that they are people, but what they are doing out there in the
deep snow I cannot understand. I approach an isba, where two
peasant women have stopped on their way to fetch water.
They seem to have forgotten their errand, and have put their
yokes and buckets on the ground, while with expressive
gestures, pointing out on the steppes, they are telling each
other some story. I draw near and ask what is goingonouton
the steppe.
" They are looking for him."
" Which him ? "
" Jegor Michaelovitch, of course."
" What Jegor Michaelovitch ? "
"Why, Jegor Michaelovitch Schupikoff who lives in the
roofless cottage at the end of the street. Do you know
Lukeria Ivanovna? Well, his brother is her godfather—they
have been sponsors together at the psalm-singer’s, and it is that
•child that is dead; it would have been of the same age as my
Vasjutka, only it was dark-haired and mine is fair."
" Well, what has happened to Jegor Michaelovitch ? "
Then the woman tells of a terrible accident. Jegor
Schupikoff, a peasant with a family, who had been reduced to
the greatest misery, and had sold and eaten up his horse, and
fed his last .cow with everything that the not-too-particular
stomach of a Russian cow can digest down to the rotten straw
of his cottage roof, had gone to his prosperous brother to
borrow a load of straw. The brother had refused. The
peasant came home crying, sat down to think awhile, talked it
over with his wife, and as a last resort decided to go out on
the steppe and try to dig out of the snow some remains of
haystacks.
There were still three hours before sunset. " I shall go and
try," he said. "Perhaps I may scrape together a small armful.
It will last a couple of days, and then I will trust for what God
gives."
Taking a rope and spade he set out. Towards evening a
storm came on and it grew dark. His wife got a light and put
-a little food on the table for supper, expecting every moment
that her husband would return with fodder for the cow. She
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