In the Forests of Mogilef
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up the road,—and no one even pays attention to the running spiders.
The road becomes more and more clear of forest.
All the land which has been cultivated, and the crops, are ruined.
Along the roadway, for the whole length of the road, stretches a line of planted trees.
As a protection from sand and from snow.
Against the drifts.
Half of these trees have now been rooted up.
Truly:
—As if the Tartar had gone by.
Look, at the twenty-verst post of the road gleams a white cross.
Three more crosses.
More still.
Still new ones, more new ones, yesterday's cemetery.
