“It is hot in the sun. … Let’s go and sit under the bushes,” says he, pointing to a little wood just across the field.
We go into the shade of the young birches. He sits down on the ground, and I stop in front of him.
“What village are you from?”
“From Botvínino.”
“Is that far?”
“There it is, shimmering on the hill,” says he, pointing.
“Why are you ploughing so far from home?”
“This is not my land: it belongs to a peasant here. I have hired myself out to him.”
“Hired yourself out for the whole summer?”
“No—to plough this ground twice, and sow it, all properly.”
“Has he much land, then?”
“Yes, he sows about fifteen bushels of seed.”
“Does he! And is that horse your own? It’s a good horse.”
“Yes, it’s not a bad mare,” he answers, with quiet pride.
The mare really is, in build, size, and condition, such as a peasant rarely possesses.
“I expect you are in service somewhere, and do carting?”
“No, I live at home. I’m my own master!”