In the Forests of Mogilef
123
All have gone.
Here comes a cunningly contrived house on wheels.
The owner has either taken an entire wash-house, or has built one and put it on wheels,—and now a pair of horses is drawing it.
Through the open door you can see the people sitting on a wooden form, just as if at home.
Singing.
Some Polish women are carrying, on wooden stands, large pictures of the Mother of God, all in dark ribbons, hung with branches of evergreen, adorned with withered flowers.
They carry the ikons the whole road, hundreds of versts, in the hands.
They go forwards as if seeing nothing in front of them.
As if they felt no tiredness whatever.
In a sort of unbroken ecstasy.
