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Stories by Foreign Authors: Russian by Unknown
page 66 of 114 (57%)
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."

Petro stood petrified, without moving from the spot, when the innocent
child lisped out Pidorka's words to him. "And I, unhappy man, thought to
go to the Crimea and Turkey, win gold and return to thee, my beauty! But
it may not be. The evil eye has seen us. I will have a wedding, too,
dear little fish, I too; but no ecclesiastics will be at that wedding.
The black crow will caw, instead of the pope, over me; the smooth field
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