"
"The cotton is _French_,
And it's reddened in dog's blood! 220
D'you understand now?"
The peasants still linger
Some time in the market,
Then go further upward,
To where on the hill-side
Are piled ploughs and harrows,
With rakes, spades, and hatchets,
And all kinds of iron-ware,
And pliable wood
To make rims for the cart-wheels. 230
And, oh, what a hubbub
Of bargaining, swearing,
Of jesting and laughter!
And who could help laughing?
A limp little peasant
Is bending and testing
The wood for the wheel-rims.
One piece does not please him;
He takes up another
And bends it with effort; 240
It suddenly straightens,
And whack!--strikes his forehead.
The man begins roaring,
Abusing the bully,
The duffer, the block-head.
Another comes driving
A cart full of wood-ware,
As tipsy as can be;
He turns it all over!
The axle is broken, 250
And, trying to mend it,
He smashes the hatchet.
He gazes upon it,
Abusing, reproaching:
"A villain, a villain,
You are--not a hatchet.
You see, you can't do me
The least little service.
The whole of your life
You spend bowing before me, 260
And yet you insult me!"
Our peasants determine
To see the shop windows,
The handkerchiefs, ribbons,
And stuffs of bright colour;
And near to the boot-shop
Is fresh cause for laughter;
For here an old peasant
Most eagerly bargains
For small boots of goat-skin 270
To give to his grandchild.
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