down, and there's no getting out of the wood—says a small farmer to me,—but it's warm in the smoke. Just like sitting in a dark izba. Hot, even. We warm the forest. That's what it's come to for us.
—Perhaps it's just the smoke that saves us, says his neighbour also a farmer—everyone is coughing all around, some are spitting blood, but in the smoke every microbe perishes.
Going farther into the forest I come upon a crowd.
A priest is explaining to them how and where to go that their horses may be properly inspected and priced, how to go to Muchin yard, sell their horses, and receive the money; how to go to the railway station and wait their turn for a seat in the train, how much will be given to each man for food.
All circumstantially.
—And I will drive ahead and meet you
