fell in curls over her kuntush. [Footnote:  Upper garment in Little Russia.] Eh! may I never intone another alleluia in the choir, if I would not have kissed her, in spite of the gray which is making its way all through the old wool which covers my pate, and my old woman beside me, like a thorn in my side!  Well, you know what happens when young men and maids live side by side.  In the twilight the heels of red boots were always visible in the place where Pidorka chatted with her Petrus.  But Korzh would never have suspected anything out of the way, only one day—­it is evident that none but the Evil One could have inspired him—­Petrus took it into his head to kiss the Cossack maiden’s rosy lips with all his heart in the passage, without first looking well about him; and that same Evil One—­ may the son of a dog dream of the holy cross!—­caused the old graybeard, like a fool, to open the cottage-door at that same moment.  Korzh was petrified, dropped his jaw, and clutched at the door for support.  Those unlucky kisses had completely stunned him.  It surprised him more than the blow of a pestle on the wall, with which, in our days, the muzhik generally drives out his intoxication for lack of fuses and powder.

Recovering himself, he took his grandfather’s hunting-whip from the wall, and was about to belabor Peter’s back with it, when Pidorka’s little six-year-old brother Ivas rushed up from somewhere or other, and, grasping his father’s legs with his little hands, screamed out, “Daddy, daddy! don’t beat Petrus!” What was to be done?  A father’s heart is not made of stone.  Hanging the whip again upon the wall, he led him quietly from the house.  “If you ever show yourself in my cottage again, or even under the windows, look out, Petro! by Heaven, your black moustache will disappear; and your black locks, though wound twice about your ears, will take leave of your pate, or my name is not Terentiy Korzh.”  So saying, he gave him a little taste of his fist in the nape of his neck, so that all grew dark before Petrus, and he flew headlong.  So there was an end of their kissing.  Sorrow seized upon our doves; and a rumor was rife in the village, that a certain Pole, all embroidered with gold, with moustaches, sabres, spurs, and pockets jingling like the bells of the bag with which our sacristan Taras goes through the church every day, had begun to frequent Korzh’s house.  Now, it is well known why the father is visited when there is a black-browed daughter about.  So, one day, Pidorka burst into tears, and clutched the hand of her Ivas.  “Ivas, my dear!  Ivas, my love! fly to Petrus, my child of gold, like an arrow from a bow.  Tell him all:  I would have loved his brown eyes, I would have kissed his white face, but my fate decrees not so.  More than one towel have I wet with burning tears.  I am sad, I am heavy at heart.  And my own father is my enemy.  I will not marry that Pole, whom I do not love.  Tell him they are preparing a wedding, but there will be no music at our wedding:  ecclesiastics will sing instead of pipes and kobzas. [Footnote:  Eight-stringed musical instrument.] I shall not dance with my bridegroom:  they will carry me out.  Dark, dark will be my dwelling,—­of maple wood; and, instead of chimneys, a cross will stand upon the roof.”