So they wrangled and argued, and at last agreed to go each his own way.

St. Nicholas at once went off to the peasant, and said: “Go and sell the Father by St. Elias’ all your standing corn: not a blade will be left; it will be destroyed by hail.”

Up the peasant dashed to the pope: “Oh, bátyushka , won’t you buy all my standing corn? I’ll sell you my whole field; I am so short of money; take it and give it me. Do buy it, Father; I’ll sell it cheap.”

They haggled and bargained, and at last agreed. The peasant took his cash and went home.

Time went by⁠—not much, nor little; a heavy thundrous cloud gathered, and, with frightsome lightning and hail, played on the peasant’s field, cut through his crops like a scythe, and left not one blade to tell the tale.