not a cloud was to be seen in the sky; and beneath the sun the
blossoming, rain-washed steppe was marvellously coloured. Now
it was like a young mother feeding her child at the breast: un-
usually beautiful, tranquil, a little weary, and beaming with the
fine, pure, and happy smile of motherhood.

Every morning Yakov Lukich was up and away before sun-
rise; flinging an old canvas coat round his shoulders he walked
out of the village to rejoice in the sight of the grain. He remained
standing a long time by the furrow marking the bound of the
fields of winter wheat, which sparkled with dewdrops. He stood
motionless, his head sunk on to his chest, like an old, weary
horse, meditating: "If the south-east wind doesn't blow from
the Kalmik steppe while it's ripening, if the wheat isn't scorched
by drought, the collective farm will have more grain than it will
know what to do with, damn and blast it! The bloody Soviet
government is in luck. Think of all the years we lived as individ-
ual farmers and never once did the rain come in season. But this
year it's poured down in bucketfuls. And if there's a good har-
vest and the collective farmers do well with their labour days,
what chance will we have of turning them against the Soviets?
Not on your life! A hungry man's like a wolf in the forest, he'll
go where you like; but a full man's like a pig at the trough, you
can't shift him. And what is Mr. Polovtsiev thinking about? I
can't make out what they're waiting for. This would be just the
moment to shake the Soviets; but they've cooled right off. . . ."

Yakov Lukich had grown tired of waiting for Polovtsiev's prom-
ised rising, and these thoughts only reflected his spiteful re-
action. He knew well enough that Polovtsiev hadn't cooled off at
all, but was waiting for some definite news. Almost every night
messengers made their way from distant villages and district
centres along the ravine which ran from the hills up to Yakov's
garden. Doubtless they left their horses at the wooded head of
the ravine and continued their journey on foot. At the quiet
knock which was the agreed signal, Yakov Lukich opened the
door to them without lighting the lamp, and led them in to
Polovtsiev in the best room. Here the shutters of the two win-
dows looking out on the yard were shut fast day and night, and

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