stooped two or three times over one or two casks, he had returned in a very cheerful and loquacious mood.
"Why do you ask me to be silent?" he answered. "She has ridden on my own shoulders, I swear she has."
"Say, uncle," asked the young shepherd, "are there signs by which to recognise a sorceress?"
"No, there are not," answered Dorosch; "even if you knew the Psalter by heart, you could not recognise one."
"Yes, Dorosch, it is possible; don't talk such nonsense," retorted the former consoler. "It is not for nothing that God has given each some special peculiarity; the learned maintain that every witch has a little tail."
"Every old woman is a witch," said a grey-headed Cossack quite seriously.
"Yes, you are a fine lot," retorted the old woman who entered at that moment with a vessel full of fresh "galuchkis." "You are great fat pigs!"
A self-satisfied smile played round the lips of the old Cossack whose name was Javtuch, when he found that his remark had touched the old woman on a tender point. The shepherd burst into such a deep and loud explosion of laughter as if two oxen were lowing together.
This conversation excited in the philosopher
