A Cheerful Season—Cheerful Songs

The feast was continuedTill morning--a splendid,A wonderful feast!Then the people dispersingWent home, and our peasantsLay down 'neath the willow;Iona--meek pilgrimOf God--slept there too.And Sava and Grisha,The sons of the deacon,Went home, with their parentUnsteady between them.They sang; and their voices,Like bells on the Volga,So loud and so tuneful,Came chiming together:

"Praise to the heroBringing the nationPeace and salvation!

"That which will surelyBanish the nightHe has awarded--Freedom and Light!

"Praise to the heroBringing the nationPeace and salvation!

"Blessings from Heaven,Grace from above,Rained on the battle,Conquered by Love.

"Little we ask Thee--Grant us, O Lord,Strength to be honest,Fearing Thy word!

"Brotherly living,Sharing in part,That is the roadwayStraight to the heart.

"Turn from that teachingTender and wise--Cowards and traitorsSoon will arise.

"People of Russia,Banish the night!You have been grantedThat which is needful--Freedom and Light!"

The deacon was poorAs the poorest of peasants:A mean little cottageLike two narrow cages,The one with an ovenWhich smoked, and the otherFor use in the summer,--Such was his abode.No horse he possessedAnd no cow. He had once hadA dog and a cat,But they'd both of them left him.

His sons put him safelyTo bed, snoring loudly;Then Savushka openedA book, while his brotherWent out, and awayTo the fields and the forest.

A broad-shouldered youthWas this Grisha; his face, though,Was terribly thin.In the clerical collegeThe students got littleTo eat. Sometimes GrishaWould lie the whole nightWithout sleep; only longingFor morning and breakfast,--The coarse piece of breadAnd the glassful of sbeeten.The village was poorAnd the food there was scanty,But still, the two brothersGrew certainly plumperWhen home for the holidays--Thanks to the peasants.

The boys would repay themBy all in their power,By work, or by doingTheir little commissionsIn town. Though the deaconWas proud of his children,He never had givenMuch thought to their feeding.Himself, the poor deacon,Was endlessly hungry,His principal thoughtWas the manner of gettingThe next piece of food.He was rather light-mindedAnd vexed himself little;But Dyomna, his wife,Had been different entirely:She worried and counted,So God took her soon.The whole of her lifeShe by salt had been troubled:If bread has run shortOne can ask of the neighbours;But salt, which means money,Is hard to obtain.The village with DyomnaHad shared its bread freely;And long, long agoWould her two little childrenHave lain in the churchyardIf not for the peasants.

And Dyomna was readyTo work without ceasingFor all who had helped her;But salt was her trouble,Her thought, ever present.She dreamt of it, sang of it,Sleeping and waking,While washing, while spinning,At work in the fields,While rocking her darlingHer favourite, Grisha.And many years afterThe death of his mother,His heart would grow heavyAnd sad, when the peasantsRemembered one song,And would sing it togetherAs Dyomna had sung it;They called it "The Salt Song."