the bushes, and, making the branches crackle, snuffed at the forest grass. Near the edge of the wood, leaning against a wet birch-trunk, stood an old, thin shepherd, capless, in a tattered frieze caftan. Lost in thought, he looked at the ground and piped his reed mechanically.
“Morning, grandfather! God be good!” Meliton greeted him in a thin, hoarse voice, in no way suited to his great height and big, fleshy face. “You play your reed well! Whose are the animals?”
“Artamonoff's,” answered the shepherd reluctantly. He thrust his reed into the bosom of his caftan.
“And the wood also is Artamonoff's?” asked Meliton, looking around. “Of course, Artamonoff's . . . I don't know where I am. I scratched my face to pieces in the briers.”
He sat down on the wet ground and rolled a cigarette in a piece of newspaper.
Like his liquid voice, everything about Meliton was petty and clashed with his stature, breadth, and fleshy face — his smile, his eyes, his buttons, the cap which barely kept on his solid, close-clipped head. As he spoke and smiled, his clean-shaven, puffy face and his whole flgure expressed childishness, timidity, and meekness.
“It's bad weather, God better it!” he said, turning away his head. “The oats are not yet in, and the rain is on us, Lord help us!”
