“Why are they crying? Why are they crying?” Mitya asked, as they dashed gayly by.
“It’s the babe,” answered the driver, “the babe weeping.”
And Mitya was struck by his saying, in his peasant way, “the babe,” and he liked the peasant’s calling it a “babe.” There seemed more pity in it.
“But why is it weeping?” Mitya persisted stupidly, “why are its little arms bare? Why don’t they wrap it up?”
“The babe’s cold, its little clothes are frozen and don’t warm it.”
“But why is it? Why?” foolish Mitya still persisted.
“Why, they’re poor people, burnt out. They’ve no bread. They’re begging because they’ve been burnt out.”
“No, no,” Mitya, as it were, still did not understand. “Tell me why it is those poor mothers stand there? Why are people poor? Why is the babe poor? Why is the steppe barren? Why don’t they hug each other and kiss? Why don’t they sing songs of joy? Why are they so dark from black misery? Why don’t they feed the babe?”
And he