Those are the nightly visitors. But during the day, not two or three, but ten or more such visitors call at each hut, and again it is: “Why, it is impossible⁠ ⁠… ,” etc.

And for almost every tramp the housewife cuts a slice of bread, thinner or thicker according to the man’s appearance⁠—though she knows her rye will not last till next harvest.

“If you were to give to all who come, a loaf 336 would not last a day,” some housewives said to me. “So sometimes one hardens one’s heart and refuses!”

And this goes on every day, all over Russia. An enormous yearly-increasing army of beggars, cripples, administrative exiles, helpless old men, and above all unemployed workmen, lives⁠—that is to say, shelters itself from cold and wet⁠—and is actually fed by the hardest-worked and poorest class, the country peasants.