The wood
crackled, and the leaves of the trees rustled softly. Alarmed by
the waves of the heated atmosphere, the merry, vivacious tongues of
fire, yellow and red, in sportive embrace, soared aloft, sowing
sparks. The burning leaves flew, and the stars in the sky smiled to
the sparks, luring them up to themselves.
"That's not MY song. Thousands of people sing it. But they sing
it to themselves, not realizing what a salutary lesson their
unfortunate lives hold for all. How many men, tormented to death by
work, miserable cripples, maimed, die silently from hunger! It is
necessary to shout it aloud, brothers, it is necessary to shout it
aloud!" He fell into a fit of coughing, bending and all a-shiver.
"Why?" asked Yefim. "My misery is my own affair. Just look at my joy."
"Don't interrupt," Rybin admonished.
"You yourself said a man mustn't boast of his misfortune," observed
Yefim with a frown.
"That's a different thing. Savely's misfortune is a general affair,
not merely his own. It's very different," said Rybin solemnly. "Here
you have a man who has gone down to the depths and been suffocated.
Now he shouts to the world, 'Look out, don't go there!'"
Yakob put a pail of cider on the table, dropped a bundle of green
branches, and said to the sick man:
"Come, Savely, I've brought you some milk.
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