taken by the horse-wagons filled to overflowing with the fragrant hay which almost hid the rumps of the horses.
"Splendid hay-weather! It'll soon be all in," said Parmenuitch, as he sat down near Levin. "Tea, not hay! It scatters like seed for the ducks when they pitch it up." Then, pointing to a hayrick which the men were demolishing, the old man went on: "Since dinner, pitched up a good half of it.—Is that the last?" he shouted to a young fellow who, standing on the pole of a cart, and shaking the ends of his hempen reins, was driving by.
"The last, batyushka," shouted back the young fellow, pulling in his horse. Then he looked down with a smile on a happy-looking, rosy-faced woman who was sitting on the hay in the telyega, and whipped up his steed again.
"Who is that? your son?" asked Levin.
"My youngest," said the elder, with an expression of pride.
"What a fine fellow!"
"Not bad."
"Married yet?"
"Yes, three years come next Filippovok." [1]
"So? And are there children?"
"How? children? For a whole year I have n't heard anything about it! and it's a shame," said the old man, "Well, this is hay! Just tea!" he repeated, wishing to change the subject.
Levin looked with interest at Vanka Parmenof and his wife. They were loading on a hayrick near by. Ivan Parmenof was standing on the wagon, arranging, storing, and pressing down the fragrant hay which the handsome goodwife handed up to him in great loads, first in armfuls, then with the fork. The young woman worked gayly, industriously, and skilfully. First she arranged it with her fork; then, with elastic and agile motions, she exerted all her strength upon it; and, stooping over, she lifted up the great armful, and standing
- ↑ St. Philips's Day, November 14.
