After tea my grandfather lay down for a nap while I went out of the house into the porch.  The house, like all the houses in the Armenian village stood in the full sun; there was not a tree, not an awning, no shade.  The Armenian’s great courtyard, overgrown with goosefoot and wild mallows, was lively and full of gaiety in spite of the great heat.  Threshing was going on behind one of the low hurdles which intersected the big yard here and there.  Round a post stuck into the middle of the threshing-floor ran a dozen horses harnessed side by side, so that they formed one long radius.  A Little Russian in a long waistcoat and full trousers was walking beside them, cracking a whip and shouting in a tone that sounded as though he were jeering at the horses and showing off his power over them.

“A—­a—­a, you damned brutes!...  A—­a—­a, plague take you!  Are you frightened?”

The horses, sorrel, white, and piebald, not understanding why they were made to run round in one place and to crush the wheat straw, ran unwillingly as though with effort, swinging their tails with an offended air.  The wind raised up perfect clouds of golden chaff from under their hoofs and carried it away far beyond the hurdle.  Near the tall fresh stacks peasant women were swarming with rakes, and carts were moving, and beyond the stacks in another yard another dozen similar horses were running round a post, and a similar Little Russian was cracking his whip and jeering at the horses.

The steps on which I was sitting were hot; on the thin rails and here and there on the window-frames sap was oozing out of the wood from the heat; red ladybirds were huddling together in the streaks of shadow under the steps and under the shutters.  The sun was baking me on my head, on my chest, and on my back, but I did not notice it, and was conscious only of the thud of bare feet on the uneven floor in the passage and in the rooms behind me.  After clearing away the tea-things, Masha ran down the steps, fluttering the air as she passed, and like a bird flew into a little grimy outhouse—­I suppose the kitchen—­from which came the smell of roast mutton and the sound of angry talk in Armenian.  She vanished into the dark doorway, and in her place there appeared on the threshold an old bent, red-faced Armenian woman wearing green trousers.  The old woman was angry and was scolding someone.  Soon afterwards Masha appeared in the doorway, flushed with the heat of the kitchen and carrying a big black loaf on her shoulder; swaying gracefully under the weight of the bread, she ran across the yard to the threshing-floor, darted over the hurdle, and, wrapt in a cloud of golden chaff, vanished behind the carts.  The Little Russian who was driving the horses lowered his whip, sank into silence, and gazed for a minute in the direction of the carts.  Then when the Armenian girl darted again by the horses and leaped over the hurdle, he followed her with his eyes, and shouted to the horses in a tone as though he were greatly disappointed: