Along the Kief Road
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glimmers and trembles white in the sunlight.
As if someone had scattered down a bundle of slips of paper.
And they turn and circle and dance, some going from side to side, others remaining at one point and hovering on their grey wings.
It is quieter than ever in the village.
It is interesting to speak with the village lads.
Boys of twelve or thirteen hold themselves seriously and solidly and importantly.
They look like muzhiks.
They say:
—We've got into a good position.
They grieve for the high prices which have to be paid for labour, for women's labour.
—And you've worked much yourselves?
—Have we not?
