"'Rise up, awake, you workingmen,'" Pavel sang softly.
As the day grew, the clouds dispersed, chased by the wind. The
mother got the dishes ready for the tea, shaking her head over the
thought of how strange it was for both of them to be joking and
smiling all the time on this morning, when who knew what would
befall them in the afternoon. Yet, curiously enough, she felt
herself calm, almost happy.
They sat a long time over the tea to while away the hours of
expectation. Pavel, as was his wont, slowly and scrupulously mixed
the sugar in the glass with his spoon, and accurately salted his
favorite crust from the end of the loaf. The Little Russian moved
his feet under the table--he never could at once settle his feet
comfortably--and looked at the rays of sunlight playing on the wall
and ceiling.
"When I was a youngster of ten years," he recounted, "I wanted to
catch the sun in a glass. So I took the glass, stole to the wall,
and bang! I cut my hand and got a licking to boot. After the
licking I went out in the yard and saw the sun in a puddle. So I
started to trample the mud with my feet. I covered myself with mud,
and got another drubbing.
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