Whenever there's something
That calls for arranging
He leaves it to Klimka:
"You see to it, Klimka!" 470
And Klimka is pleased.)

And soon the old soldier
Is helped from the hay-cart:
He's weak on his legs,--tall,
And strikingly thin.
His uniform seems
To be hung from a pole;
There are medals upon it.

It cannot be said
That his face is attractive, 480
Especially when
It's distorted by _tic_:
His mouth opens wide
And his eyes burn like charcoal,--
A regular demon!

The music is started,
The people run back
From the banks of the Volga.
He sings to the music.

* * * * *

A spasm has seized him: 490